File 2: The Ashbury Incident
by Q. Alias
Summary: [Complete] [Alternate timeline] RETRIEVING FILES... SUCCESS. Ashbury Incident: experimental bio-weapons test (redacted) The Family (redacted) Martin ERROR Umbrella Corporation. Surveillance data indicates presence of Alexia Ashford and Subject 014 Harman during Ashbury testing. Further data is restricted. Terminating connection.
1. Prologue - State of the World

**Downloading Video Logs...**

* * *

Everything had fallen apart for Umbrella in the last thirteen years. When news surfaced that they had been involved in the Raccoon Incident, the courts sank Spencer's company through a war of legal attrition. Spencer had dumped everything into the Raccoon Trials—he had hired the best lawyers, PR reps with silver tongues, bought out entire media platforms to re-direct the shit—but it had not been enough. Umbrella went under in 2003, though it had left a powerful legacy. Once America's illegal war in the Middle-East was in full murderous swing, radical splinter-groups of a new breed of terrorist had cropped up: the bio-terrorist.

Bio-terrorism was a scary thing. Where the normal terrorist usually belonged to a rag-tag group of somewhat organized and militarized individuals, who blew up buildings and beheaded hapless news reporters on televised executions, the bio-terrorist belonged to a group of highly organized and militarized people who used Umbrella's chemical slough to sow chaos across the globe. And unlike the typical terrorist, whose mission—to destroy the Western Imperialists—was fairly straightforward, the bio-terrorist's mission often remained anomalous, with no clear intention but to make the world burn through a series of calculated, massive infections.

It was when dealing with bio-terrorists that the BSAA—the Bio-terrorism Security Assessment Alliance—came into play, and they had become a huge pain-in-the-ass for Alexia and him. They had kept away from war politics (When Umbrella went down, a lot of its higher operatives got into the political game), edging along the fringe of good society and making various shady transactions with various shady groups, usually on the behalf of Albert Wesker. And the BSAA was always not too far behind.

Then Spencer was found dead in his European castle, several days after his murder, by an unnamed individual. Albert Wesker got smoked in Kijuju by Chris Redfield because he had tried to overextend his business, and his underworld empire was left open for the taking. Alexia, whose finances had been dwindling since Umbrella sank, suddenly found herself with extraordinary sums of money, sluicing in through various black market conduits, and into what had previously been Albert Wesker's several off-shore accounts.

Once Alexia had gotten control, there was no stopping her. She was smarter than Albert Wesker, had expanded her markets, and even had a few politicians in her pockets. But as impressive as her expansion had been, there was always another obstacle that kept her from total market domination—and that was Martin Wesker's operation. He was the one insurmountable bump in the road, omnipresent and determined to ruin her. In the years since he had hired the H.C.F to retrieve Alexia from Antarctica, Bingham, the name he still went by, had become a pharmaceutical lord whose bloodier operations had been meticulously hidden from public scrutiny. Though most people in the public would not know his face from another in a crowd, Bingham had a solid reputation in the chemical black markets, and a lot of powerful friends.

Things got quiet around 2011, when rumors of Alex Wesker started cropping up. Alex had been running some operation near Russia, on some backwater island, but her blip had disappeared from the radar as quickly as it had appeared. Then it was relatively silent from 2011 to 2015—except 2013, when a sequence of violent bio-terrorist attacks had exploded in the United States, China, and Eastern Europe. Bingham had pretty much disappeared from the grid, and business had started to slow down, so Alexia, in a sort of way, retired from the underworld business and spent her forties conducting independent research in New Arklay, because she had wanted to be closer to home, and to their teenage daughter Veronica.

New Arklay was probably the only Umbrella laboratory left in the world. The tech was cutting-edge, and the staff was talented; they had either worked for the Umbrella Corporation in its glory days, or had drifted in from other defunct companies, like TriCell and WilPharma. They were also eager to work under Alexia, who had become something of a legend in the Umbrella mythos because of her contribution of the T-Veronica, and because of her family name. She was the only living descendant of an Umbrella founder, which afforded her immense respect among her peers. Spencer was gone; Marcus had been killed in 1988; and her grandfather had been dead since 1968.

But she did not really let the attention go to her head. Alexia was grounded, and at the age where her research and her family had become somewhat more important than accolades. She was well-liked by her subordinates and peers; but they also maintained a careful fear of her, because they knew about her connections, and knew what she was capable of.


	2. Part One - Home

Grayson returned from his three weeks in LA, tired and wanting to die. Since Albert Wesker had died in Kijuju and had effectively cut their chains, Grayson had decided to channel his Columbia degree, and all the shit he had been through, into horror and science fiction novels, and had managed to become something of a successful writer in recent years.

At first, everything had been great. He made good money, even had a movie deal in the works for one of his recent books, which is why he had even gone to LA in the first place. But the glamour had faded a long time ago, and Grayson realized that being a successful writer actually kind of sucked. He spent most of his time traveling between book-signings, meetings, and conventions, and was at the point he seriously considered faking his death, because he was getting far too old for this shit.

Grayson put down his luggage, checking his reflection in the chrome of the refrigerator. He was just about pushing fifty; but engineered viruses, as it turned out, were great preservatives, and he barely looked a day over thirty.

He went down to New Arklay, where he was sure Alexia was in the exciting throes of research. Grayson never understood how she stayed so interested in her job; it had been over thirty years, and Alexia still acted as if scribbling on clipboards and staring at computers was the biggest kick in the world.

The entrance to New Arklay was concealed in the basement of the mansion, which had once served as a wine cellar. It smelled of mildew, and of old oak from the empty wine barrels. It was a grimy brickwork space with a vaulted ceiling, and the floor was packed dirt, which was damp in some spots from the old leaky waterlines that came through the room. Grayson stared at the wall, and it took several tries to get the pattern right; the bricks had to be pushed in a particular sequence to unlock the lift, and he always had a hard time remembering which bricks were connected to the locking mechanism.

There was a noise, of stone grinding against stone, and the wall opened, revealing a stainless steel elevator lit by fluorescent panels. In the darkness of the cellar, it was like staring into an angelic gate. Grayson stepped inside and rode the lift down. He had suggested once to Alexia that they should license some elevator music because it would be funny, but she'd just looked unamused and told him it was a stupid idea.

None of the scientists ever batted an eye when he came down into the facility. One said, "Hey, Grayson. Welcome back," and disappeared through an automated door. Another said, "Chief's in the lab," and grinned knowingly.

The entire facility was medical white, and lit by new fluorescent tubes. Bingham's prototype had rendered his sight painfully sensitive, and no amount of Alexia's tweaking had fixed it. If Grayson took off his sunglasses (not that he would, because he did not enjoy pain unless it was in the bedroom) and stared too long at the light, it would give him a searing headache, and then he'd feel intense pressure behind his eyes, like two thumbs pushing them from his skull.

Grayson waited for decontamination to cycle—he hated it, because it reminded him of those annoying mist-showers in amusements parks—and entered the lab. Alexia was inside, among a small team of scientists, who moved around her in a complex choreography of swapping papers, samples, and folders. Some of the researchers were staring at computers and talking to Alexia in a highly complicated language of scientific jargon and medical terminology. Others operated centrifuges, measured liquids in flasks and glass cylinders, their features composed in looks of intense concentration behind their plastic work-goggles.

One of the younger researchers—Grayson was pretty sure her name was Valerie, or something that began with a V—handed him a lab coat and said, "If you're going to barge inside the lab, Mr. Harman, put a coat on. There are bacterial samples in here that will literally eat your flesh if you happen to spill it on yourself."

Grayson ignored the lab coat. He kissed Alexia's cheek, who was busy staring at something through her microscope. She turned around and hugged him, beaming. "I see you're back from your exciting trip to California," she said, and looked him up and down. "You look like absolute shit, dear. Jet lag?"

"I haven't slept for nearly twenty-four hours," he said, suddenly realizing how tired he was. It had hit him like a concrete wall. "Jesus. How's things been while I've been gone? Veronica behaving herself?"

The girl, Valerie or whatever her name was, said, "Go ahead, Chief. We've got it from here."

Alexia nodded, and they left the laboratory. At forty-five, Alexia did not look a day over twenty-seven. The only difference that Grayson could really pick out was her eyes: there was a certain maturity to them, a weight which had come from experience and age, and from being a mother. "Veronica's moody as usual," she said, slipping her hands inside the pockets of her lab coat. "I don't get it, Grayson. I've never been terrible to her. Yet she acts so distant whenever I try to talk to her."

"She's a teenager, Alexia. They all go through that moody shit. I did. Alfred did. You did." Grayson shrugged. He fingered the silver dragonfly barrette in her hair, and grinned. "Glad I remembered it was in my pants pocket, before I trashed my suit in Antarctica. Still looks as nice on you as it did on Christmas thirty-three years ago." Grayson whistled, shaking his head. Then said, "Shit. Thirty years. Jesus, we are getting fucking old."

"Speak for yourself," said Alexia, smirking."But yes, time does fly. We've practically been together for thirty years. Thirty years with the same person, Grayson. God knows how I've put up with you that long." She laughed.

"Yeah, don't know how I managed that," he said, smiling. "And," he said, poking her in the arm, "it's been less than thirty, because a _certain someone_ decided to to take a nap for fifteen years."

"I don't know how many times I can say I'm sorry, Grayson," she said.

Grayson got real serious then. He said, "You didn't know what it was like, Alexia. Standing outside your family mausoleum, thinking your body was in that casket and wishing I was dead instead of you."

"I'm sorry, Grayson," she said, and he knew she meant it. "I didn't know how to tell you. You were so adamant against my research. It was easier pretending I was dead."

He smiled and said, "It's okay." Grayson threw his arm across her shoulders. "You're here now. Have been for seventeen years. And I got a daughter out of it, so that's cool." He laughed.

Alexia elbowed him in the side, grinning. "You are still utterly incapable of seriousness."

"Not true. I pay bills, and do my own taxes."

Alexia shook her head.

"So where's Veronica anyway? I didn't see her car when I pulled up to the mansion."

"I don't know. Probably in Ashbury with her friends. She doesn't tell me anything, Grayson."

"You try calling her?"

"I did," said Alexia, slipping her smartphone from her pocket and thumb-scrolling through several texts. "Hasn't sent anything new. 'I'm out with friends', and she sent that four hours ago. I texted her shortly after, but received no reply." She sighed, pocketing the phone. "I don't even know where to begin looking for her," she added. "Or I'd drag Veronica back to the house myself, just like Scott would have done to me. I'm worried she's falling in with the wrong people, Grayson."

"Veronica's an AP student, and has straight As. I think she's fine," said Grayson. He knew that good grades did not precisely equal good behavior, but didn't want to worry Alexia. He had been a hoodlum when he'd been Veronica's age, and Veronica did not strike him as hoodlum material.

"I wish my brother was still alive. Or Scott. I feel like they could handle a teenage girl better than I can." They took the lift up into the cellar, and went upstairs into the mansion. When they reached the parlor, Alexia poured herself a Merlot; she'd become something of a softcore wino in recent years. "Alfred had a knack for making people listen to him. So did Scott."

"That's because Alfred killed them if they didn't listen. This one time, he shot this guy on Rockfort, right in the head." Alexia offered him a wine, but Grayson said no thank you, kicking off his shoes and lying on the couch. He loosened his tie. It felt good, finally relaxing in his own home after three weeks of taxis, and meetings with Hollywood suits who talked too much about profit, and knew nothing about good cinema. "Guy said, 'Hey, sweetheart, you gotta sister', and Alfred blew his brains out, all over some other prisoner's face. Pretty crazy. And dad? He'd just whoop you if you got too lippy."

"How did your little thing in Hollywood go?" asked Alexia, sipping her wine.

"I hate the screenwriter, so I'm pretty sure I don't want them making a movie out of my book. I don't write the most cultured shit, but I know good cinema, and those clowns knew nothing about good cinema. One guy never even heard of Stanley Kubrick. What shit is that, Alexia?"

"An utter travesty," she said, sitting beside him.

"How's things going with New Arklay?" he asked suddenly. "Bingham still hiding?"

"I've talked to some connections. It's as if Bingham vanished into thin air," said Alexia.

"He's good at the whole Houdini act."

"I don't like it, Grayson," she said, frowning. "Silence is rarely a good thing. It usually means there's scheming going on."


	3. Interlude 1: Familial Problems

Grayson had gone to bed, but Alexia stayed up because it was a quarter past midnight now, and Veronica had not returned. She checked her smartphone, but Veronica had not answered any of her recent texts. She would give her another hour, and if she was not back by then, Alexia would call the police.

The way their mansion had been built, the front door was just outside the parlor in the corridor, and the only other entrance was a back-door in the east wing, which went out into Grayson's garden, and was always locked because their daughter had a worrying habit of sneaking around. Veronica could not sneak past the parlor without making a great deal of noise, because the floors in the hallway were hardwood and creaked under the slightest pressure.

Alexia sat down in the armchair and waited, turning the television on. It was still tuned to the news channel, from when she had watched it that morning, and they were talking about the shit-show that was the current presidential election, and about yet another terrorist attack in Europe. Alexia did not even know why she watched the news; it was another stupid reality show. She flipped the channel to some nature documentary. Alexia would rather hear about the migratory habits of birds than two old men gibbering on about Yankee jingoism.

Around one o'clock, Alexia heard a car, and the door rattling. She clicked off the television and got up, putting on her best angry mother look. She was still not very good at the mother thing, even after seventeen years. She supposed it was because she had never actually had a mother to mimic, and had only had Scott, whose approach to child-rearing had been firm and old-fashioned, but fair. Veronica had also been an accidental product of sex with Grayson in Antarctica, so she had been thrust into the role without any real preparation, and had been clumsily puzzling it out since.

Veronica was the spitting image of her in every way, except for her dark hair, which she had inherited from Grayson, and wore short around the ears. Alexia hated how short Veronica had cut it, but Grayson, for whatever reason, thought it looked nice. She also had a thing for over-sized band shirts and skinny jeans, and had an inexplicable attraction to beanies, which she had spent the last five years amassing a collection of, all in different colors, and for every stupid occasion. Alexia had tried to make her daughter into a proper Ashford, but there must have been something in her DNA—definitely from her father—that made her obstinate and rebellious. In a lot of ways, Veronica reminded Alexia of Grayson when he was a boy, and that frightened her.

"Mom. I thought you were down in the lab," said Veronica, slowly shutting the door behind her.

"I was. Then your father came home, and told me you were still out at ten o'clock," said Alexia. She took the beanie off her daughter's head. Then said, "It's rude to wear hats inside, Veronica. Where were you?"

"I was out with friends. I told you," said Veronica, fixing her hair. "It's Friday, mom. Jesus."

"You ignored my texts," said Alexia coolly. She tossed Veronica's hat onto a nearby end table. "Friday or not, I don't bloody care, Veronica. You're sixteen, and have no fucking business driving around past curfew. If I find out you were drinking, or smoking anything—cigarette or otherwise—I will _personally_ lock you up in one of the vacant specimen cells until you learn how to behave like an Ashford." She would never actually lock Veronica in a cell, but Alexia was so mad, and the words just came like automatic bullets, one after the other.

"I wasn't smoking. I wasn't drinking. I was at my friend Lisa's house," snapped Veronica. "Jesus Christ, you act like I'm the anti-Christ, and out there starting fires or murdering people." She went into the kitchen, and Alexia followed her. Veronica whipped around and said, "Can you stop following me?"

"Use that tone with me one more time, Veronica. I dare you," Alexia hissed. She knew that, when she wanted or needed to be, she could be scary, and the ability had served her well countless times during her days circuiting the chemical black markets, when groups would not take her seriously because of her gender, or because she lacked reputation.

Veronica did not say anything. She opened the refrigerator and helped herself to a Coke, and tried to maneuver around her, but Alexia stepped in the way. "I get it, mom. Okay?" said Veronica, scowling.

"Why did you ignore my texts?" asked Alexia.

"You sent like a hundred of them. It was annoying," said Veronica, popping the tab on her Coke and sipping.

"I'm your mother. It's my job to be annoying," she said, because it had seemed like something a mother would say. "You didn't tell me where you were going. Who you were with. The phone is the only way I can contact you since you'd gotten your license. And you're your father's child, so who bloody knows what you could be out there doing!"

"I didn't tell you because you were busy playing with your fucking experiments," said Veronica, suddenly angry. "You're always down in the laboratory. Sometimes I forget you even live here, mom."

"Veronica, that isn't—"

Veronica's blue eyes—the same eyes Alexia had—hardened into nuggets of ice, and she said, "It's a wonder dad's still with you, and hasn't run off with another chick yet."

For the first time in her life, Alexia slapped Veronica hard across the face, and said, in a voice that did not seem like her own, "Don't you dare, Veronica."

Veronica did not cry, or say anything. But there was a strange look in her eyes that might have been disappointment. Then she said, "Yeah," and left.

Alexia did not feel bad about slapping Veronica. It was the look her daughter had given her that bothered her the most, and the things she had said about never being around—a stranger in her own home. And Alexia knew Veronica was right, she really wasn't around much; her research often kept her in New Arklay for extended periods of time. Grayson understood because he had grown up with her, and had, a long time ago, accepted it was part of her job. But Veronica had no experience with that sort of thing; she was still young and impetuous, and wanted her mother around, even if she pretended she did not.

She went upstairs and showered, then slipped into a T-shirt. Grayson was dead asleep, lying on his side and facing the bay window, his arms wrapped around himself. She climbed into bed and curled up against Grayson's back. "Hey, Alexia," he said, and rolled over to look at her. In the darkness of the room, his eyes glittered cat-gold. "Veronica ever come home?"

"She did. I'm sorry if I woke you," she said, and kissed him.

Grayson smiled. It reminded her of a young John Travolta smile. "You didn't," he said. "I wasn't exactly sleeping, I guess. I was worried about Veronica. You don't look too mad, so I suppose she came back in one piece? No cops?"

"She's fine," said Alexia, fingers trailing his jaw. Grayson looked the same, still as handsome as he'd been all those years ago in Antarctica. Idly, she wondered how long they both might live. Bingham was still around, and because he'd infected himself, had lived over what had to have been a hundred years by now, since he was her grandfather's generation.

"You have the something's-bothering-me tone," said Grayson. It always unsettled her how adept he'd become at reading her.

"I slapped Veronica," she admitted.

"Why?"

"Veronica got mouthy, and I got angry," said Alexia. "Said she wondered why you haven't left me yet for another woman. Pointed out that I was never around."

"To be fair, Alexia, you're never around. I'm used to it, sure, but Veronica's still a kid. And she's got my temper, poor girl." Grayson raised himself on his elbow, slipping a hand down her side and resting it on her hip. He smiled reassuringly. "Veronica didn't mean any of that stuff, Alexia. She's just angry. She loves her mom so much that you not being around actually pisses her off. It's the kids who don't like having their parents around, the kids who are okay with it, you got to watch out for."

"I've never heard of a teenager who liked having their parents around," said Alexia, smiling. Grayson, as always, had a way of calming her down, and she felt the anger receding. He could be dangerously disarming when he wanted to be.

"I'm not saying breathe down their necks all the time," said Grayson, slowly turning her over onto her back and grinning. "All kids say they hate their parents and hate being around them. There's only a few who actually mean it, Alexia. Veronica's not one of them, and I know that because she's exactly like me."

Alexia chuckled, fingertips grazing his chest. "That's what scares me the most, I think. That she's like you."

"Hey, I turned out okay," he said, and kissed her.

Grayson shucked off her shirt, and they came together in a mutual satisfied grunt, rocking there in the dark room. She did not want to think about anything but the present, her thoughts ghosting away between thrusts, and the roll of her hips, fingers raking across the broadness of Grayson's back. His mouth trailed along her neck, between her breasts, then moved up along her jawline. "Jesus, Grayson," she said raggedly, though she was quickly silenced by another kiss. For only a second, a thought guttered: it had been about childhood, and the strangeness, even after so many years, of making love to her best friend. But Alexia supposed it wasn't exactly a lifetime, because she had slept for fifteen years, and had only truly known this weird sensation for the last seventeen...

Her orgasm crested, working through her legs like pleasant electricity, and Alexia went limp on the mattress, a warmness spreading from the back of her head and making it difficult for her to concentrate on anything but the feeling. Grayson came, rolling wildly between her legs, riding the last shaky wavelengths of his climax and rolling over beside her, panting. Then he grinned like an idiot in the light coming through the window, and Alexia would have told him to stop smiling like that, but she was too tired, and in too good of a mood.

Grayson kissed her, then lay back down beside her, and they both fell asleep, curled against each other's warm, damp flesh.


	4. Part One - She's Not So Bad

Grayson woke to a gray Saturday. Rain beaded on the bay window, and the world beyond was a monochrome photograph.

Alexia was still asleep, and would have probably wanted him to wake her, but he just didn't have the heart. She worked herself too hard, jumping between one project and the next, never having a real moment to appreciate the little things, like sleeping in on a Saturday. Besides, her staff was a capable and skilled one, and they could get along just fine without her for a weekend.

He kissed her cheek, then carefully slid out from underneath her arm. The air-conditioned air was cool on his naked skin. Grayson showered, then dressed in a shirt and jeans, because he did not want to wear another suit for a very long time. He made himself a coffee, then headed for the parlor and turned the television on. It was tuned to a nature documentary channel, so he flipped the channel—more presidential coverage—cartoons—one of those reality shows about neo-hippies living in the wilderness—news coverage about the BSAA.

Grayson sat down and watched intently. He knew of the BSAA, but had never seen the actual faces behind it. The BSAA was like The Blob: a shapeless alien enemy that he knew was dangerous, but had no idea where it had come from.

The newscaster was reporting live from the Middle-East, and it looked like a scorching day. The guy looked massively uncomfortable, sweat dripping down his face and beading on his upper-lip. He was interviewing a woman. When her name came up, Grayson almost dropped his coffee.

It was Jill Valentine. They were operating around a quarantine in some part of Iran, after the local extremist cell had dumped T-Virus into the population. Jill still looked good at her age. Her hair was dark, no grays from what he could see, and tied back in a ponytail. Though her blue eyes had a heavy look to them now, as if Jill had seen a lot of shit, and the weight of that shit was weighing down on her eyes.

"What can the BSAA tell us about the attack?" asked the newscaster, holding out the microphone to Jill.

"Right now, I can't release too many details. But the situation has been contained," said Jill, in a professional voice. She wore gray BSAA fatigues, and a hat, the visor pulled low over her eyes, which were slightly screwed against the desert sun reflecting off the sand. Her hands were hooked in the belt-loops of her pants, which she wore a gun rig on. "We're still determining where the bio-terrorists got hold of the samples, but haven't found anything clear-cut yet. Though we do have promising leads."

"Do you think Americans have to worry about the radicals smuggling these weaponized viruses into the States?" asked the newscaster. "A lot of people are scared. The Raccoon Incident is still a fresh scar for a lot of folks back home, and with bio-terrorism on the rise..."

There was a sudden haunted clarity in Jill's expression, and her professionalism slipped. "Yeah, I know. I was there."

"You're a former member of S.T.A.R.S, aren't you?" asked the reporter.

"Yeah," said Jill, and she walked away before the guy could ask her another question.

"Well, uh, there you have it," said the reporter, dumbfounded. "Natalie, back to you."

The live-feed cut away to recorded videos of a Middle-Eastern city on fire, walled in by large rubber quarantine walls. Grayson wondered if it had been one of the groups Alexia had sold to, though doubted it. She had never liked dealing directly with bio-terrorists. But if the people she supplied turned around and made deals with the radicals, Alexia did not really care about what happened, because the money was already laundered and sitting in one of her several off-shore accounts.

"Way you were staring at the screen suggests you knew that woman, dad." Veronica flopped down beside him on the couch. She was still wearing her pajama pants, and a T-shirt that said NO LIFE. "Old girlfriend?" Veronica grinned impishly, elbowing him in the side. "Mistress?"

Grayson finished his coffee, which had gone cold, and set the mug on the table. He did not need to wear sunglasses around Veronica; she had gotten used to his eyes a long time ago. "Old girlfriend," he said, deciding it did not really matter if Veronica knew. "I guess she's with the BSAA now. When I knew her, she was in the military. Stationed at the base in Raccoon City. Ended up getting picked up by S.T.A.R.S in '96, but I suppose you wouldn't even know about S.T.A.R.S, would you?"

"Dad, there's this thing called the internet." Veronica was scrolling through a social media feed on her phone, clean gray socks on the edge of the coffee table. "Besides," she added, "they added the Raccoon City Incident to our textbooks. We actually talked about it in class the other day, when our teacher got on the subject of biological warfare."

"Anything interesting?" he asked.

"Nope. Umbrella did some bad shit, and the city paid for it, and that's what happens when you misuse biological weapons. Blah, blah, blah." Veronica paused. "Why'd you break up with the chick on the television?" she asked suddenly, looking at him.

"I went back to your mother," said Grayson simply. Alexia and him had been pretty oblique about their pasts. They had never told Veronica about Alfred and Rockfort Prison, or about Antarctica, and it wasn't because they did not want to, but because they felt Veronica wasn't ready yet.

"Why?" said Veronica, a certain hardness in her voice. "Mom's a witch."

Normally, Grayson socked anyone who talked about Alexia like that, like he had done to Mark, and had done to Steve. But Veronica was his daughter, and he understood her hostility. "You need to cut your mom some slack," he said. "She's been nothing but a good mother to you, Veronica. Sure, she's not around much. And sure, her brand of love can be a little tough. But she means well. Your mom, she grew up in a pretty broken family. Rich, yeah. But broken. Her mom walked out on her, and her dad didn't give two shits about her or your uncle. She only had my old man. And my old man was a tough lover."

"What happened to Uncle Alfred anyway?" she asked.

Grayson knew that Veronica was trying to divert the subject, but decided he would tell her anyway—carefully. "Your uncle was murdered. Got gunned down." It was still a painful subject for Alexia and him to talk about, and on the rare occasion they did talk about it as more than a casual mention, it was always ambiguously referred to as _the murder._ "But we're not talking about Alfred right now," he said. "We're talking about you and your mom. She told me about last night."

"Sometimes I feel like I'm just a ghost to her," said Veronica. She wasn't whining—Veronica did not whine—but she definitely sounded hurt. She also had a habit of staring intently at her phone whenever she was upset, and she was staring at it like it held all the answers to her problems. "I don't get why she's always so bitchy and cold."

"Probably because you're always so bitchy and cold to her, kiddo," said Grayson, and cringed because he was starting to regurgitate his dad's vocabulary. He continued, "Your mom grew up in a family that disparaged emotional showcasing. Her dad was just as cold, so she never really had a good example to follow. Don't take it personal, doll. Your mom does love you." It was the truth; Alexia did love her. If Alexia had really hated Veronica, she would have killed her when she was a baby, and Grayson did not doubt that it had probably crossed her mind at the time. Alexia had been a different person then, colder, more detached and immature.

"What about Grandpa Scott? You always make him sound like a fun guy," said Veronica. "You think she'd have followed his example."

"My dad had his good moments, but he was also pretty emotionally stunted," said Grayson, smiling. "Grew up in the generation that insisted boys, especially boys who grew up and went into the military, shouldn't show emotion."

"You turned out okay, dad."

"That's debatable," he said, and laughed.

Veronica flashed a smile, and stood. "I'm going to Lisa's house. She lives in Ashbury." She paused, staring at her phone. She was texting someone. "I, uh, just sent mom the contact details. And an apology." Veronica paused again. "Weird. Mom usually answers right away."

"Your mom's still out cold upstairs. She must have been tired," he said. Grayson stood too, and kissed Veronica on the head. "Thanks for sending that apology to her, kiddo—Grayson cringed again, as his father's favorite word came smoothly from his mouth—"But you should give it to her in person. Means more than a stupid text, I promise."

"I'll talk to mom when I come home tonight," said Veronica. "I gotta get a shower and dress. I should be home around 9 o'clock."

"Drive carefully out there. It's raining," said Grayson.

"I can handle the rain, dad."


	5. Interlude 2: The Road

Alexia woke, and Grayson's side of the bed was empty and cold. A watery blue dimness filled the room, the faint roiling of thunder outside, and the rain pattering against the diamond-paned glass of the bay window. It was too dark to be morning, and Alexia was almost afraid to see what time it was, because she rarely ever overslept. But the last few weeks, with her latest project, had been long and difficult, and the only thing that had kept her from keeling over was a steady dosage of caffeine. She now understood how it must have been for Birkin all those years ago, who had operated on a seemingly permanent caffeine high.

She groped for her phone, still groggy and naked, knocking something—Alexia squinted and realized it was an assortment of Grayson's change, which he never actually seemed to put away, and left strewn around the house—onto the floorboards with a loud collective chinking. The brightness of the phone-screen seared her eyes, and she rolled onto her back, eyes screwed against the intrusive light, fumbling several times with her unlock code before she actually got it.

It was 3 o'clock in the afternoon, and Alexia wanted to kick herself for it, then wanted to kick Grayson because he'd not woken her. She couldn't remember the last time she had wasted an entire day asleep.

She noticed several new texts, and scrolled through them. Most of the texts were updates from her research team about the recent iteration of the T-Veronica virus; though Veronica had sent her a text this morning. Alexia read it and smiled; Veronica had apologized about last night, in a solid paragraph, and had even included the address of her friend Lisa's house.

Alexia got up, shivering in the air-conditioned coldness of the room. After a warm shower, she searched the closet for something to wear. She decided on a pair of slim black jeans and a white shirt, and a nice dark blazer to wear over it. Her tastes had become decidedly more practical in recent years, though Alexia still maintained a certain love for anachronistic formal dresses, like the one she had worn in Antarctica.

Pocketing her phone, she went to look for Grayson. Grayson normally spent his free-time inside his study these days—if Alexia could even call it free-time—researching material for his books, then writing his books. She found a funny sort of irony in it; thirty years ago, she had been the one who was constantly holed up inside her laboratory, and now it was Grayson constantly holed up inside his study. But Alexia still spent far too much time in her laboratory, so she supposed not much had actually changed...

Alexia didn't even knock, and went right in. Neither of them ever knocked anymore. Seventeen years of marriage and a child, and over forty years of knowing one another, had rendered the concept of privacy entirely obsolete. They were well past that comfortable point in the relationship where they could stroll right inside the bathroom while the other was using it, and hold an entire conversation as if they were sitting at the dinner table.

Grayson sat at his computer, surrounded by piles of books, and bookcases stuffed with more books. But even with the piles of books everywhere, there was still an odd neatness to the place; the books were stacked neatly, so she could easily navigate the room. Alexia supposed it was difficult for Grayson to disregard the habits he'd cultivated as her family's butler, even though he had not actually been their butler for years.

"Oh. Hey, Alexia," said Grayson, without looking at her. He was reading something on the computer screen, a finger curled across his upper-lip, his features composed in an intensely contemplative look.

"Do you know when Veronica is coming back from her friend's house?" Alexia badly wanted to talk to Veronica, now that she was sure the air was relatively clear between them.

"Mmf," he said, and when Grayson made noises like that, it usually meant he wasn't listening.

"Veronica. Our daughter."

"Mmf."

"Grayson, would you bloody listen when I'm talking to you?"

"Oh, sorry," he said, shaking his head. "9 o'clock. Pretty sure that's what she said."

"Why are you staring so intently at the computer anyway?" Alexia could not really see the monitor from where she stood, and moved closer, almost tripping over a stack of books. She cursed, then said, "You could at least bloody look at me when you're speaking to me, Grayson."

"Sorry. I was absorbed in this article." Grayson sucked his teeth, then finally looked at her. He looked like he was about to break some terrible news. "So I'm just going to come out and say it: Claire Redfield's still alive. So is her brother."

Alexia froze. She had been sure the Redfields had died in Antarctica. She'd sent the bio-form to deal with them; and even if they had managed to kill it, which Alexia had been sure they could not, they wouldn't have been able to escape the blast radius of the bomb. Her jaw tensed, and so did her fist. "How?" she said finally. "Even if they escaped the fucking blast radius, the cold would have killed them."

"Alfred had a jet," said Grayson, folding his arms behind his head and staring at her. "I ran Chris Redfield's name through a search engine just to see if anything came up. Guy used to be in the Air Force. I guess he flew the jet out of there. He's with the BSAA now." He clicked his tongue, and propped his feet up on his desk, which was buried under a layer of pens and papers. "Seriously pulled some shit on us. Goddamn."

Alexia could not contain her temper, and swatted the lamp off Grayson's desk, shattering it against a bookcase. He did not even flinch. Grayson never flinched; he was used to her temper, and had always found a strange delight in it. She came stiffly to the computer and looked at the article he'd been reading. It was fairly recent, from two weeks ago. It detailed TerraSave's relief efforts in the Middle-East, where they were currently running a joint-operation with the BSAA in Iran. She scrolled through the pictures; the pictures showed bawling children and bloodied women in headscarves, and screes of building rubble littering a city of tents. Claire Redfield was in one of the photographs, handing a relief kit to a woman and her small child. She looked weathered, Alexia decided; Claire was not the young red-haired college girl she remembered, but a woman with a hard, serious face, and eyes that were tired from the things she had seen and lived through.

"Where does it mention Chris Redfield?" asked Alexia hotly.

Grayson showed her. Claire had mentioned Chris's name to the woman who had interviewed her.

"How did you find this article anyway?" she asked.

"When I ran Chris's name through the search engine," said Grayson. Then he grinned, stroking her cheek. "You've got the cutest bitch-face, Alexia."

She smacked his hand away, and Grayson laughed. He turned back to the screen, minimizing the window and opening his e-mail inbox. Most of the e-mails were from his agent, who Alexia was sure had a thing for Grayson because her e-mails always came across as obliquely flirtatious. "You should find another agent," she muttered, moving away from the computer.

"Don't worry about Audrey," said Grayson, batting his eyes. "I only have eyes for you, baby."

Alexia grinned, grabbing his face and kissing him fiercely. "I know," she said, and kissed him again, this time with tongue, to remind Grayson that he belonged to her. "Besides," Alexia purred, teasing a finger along the curve of his cheek, "I doubt Audrey would entertain half your kinks, like I do." She patted his face, then left.

" _Yowza_ ," she heard him say, before she was out the door.

She went downstairs, thinking. The Redfields were alive, and clearly nobody had believed their story about Antarctica, because she was still a free woman. Even so, they were a potential liability. She honestly had no personal issue with Chris, who had simply been an annoying and unintended variable in Antarctica; but Claire, she had allowed Steve to pull the trigger on Alfred. Alexia wanted Claire dead, but wasn't sure how to go about it. If Claire had garnered enough attention to warrant internet articles about her, taking her out would be much more difficult now; computers had come a long way in just seventeen years, which made murder several degrees more complicated. In Antarctica, there had been no smartphones or GPS. Besides, Claire was in another country now. It would be difficult to reach her.

At nine o'clock, Veronica came home; Alexia could see the headlights of her car, outside the parlor windows. She stepped outside. It was still raining, but it wasn't a bad rain; it was a warm summer rain, an early June rain. Veronica got out and thumped the door shut, locking the car with her phone, using its light to navigate the dark winding path that led up to the house. When she saw her, she said, "Hey, mom. I'm sorry about last night."

"It's fine, Veronica. I'm sorry I slapped you," said Alexia.

Veronica shrugged. The hood of her leather jacket was pulled up over her head. "I deserved it," she said.

Alexia looked past her. "Care to go for a walk? I'd like to talk to you."

Her daughter smiled like Grayson. "If you're not worried about your hair getting wet," she said, and they started down the path.

"My family lived on a South Pacific island for a long time. Rain isn't new to me," said Alexia, walking alongside Veronica. They passed the marble fountain of the Grecian woman, which bubbled quietly in the dark, and went down the road. The road had once been a logging trail, but Spencer had paved it; though the tarmac was old and crumbling, and in desperate need of repair. Alexia had always meant to repair it, but it had not been an especially pressing issue.

"You ever have to deal with storms?" Her hands were jammed inside her jacket pockets, and Veronica walked carelessly, as if always on the verge of collision. Grayson had walked the same way as a boy, but with more of a slouch.

Alexia nodded. "Occasionally. Hurricanes weren't as common, but we dealt with a lot of tropical storms."

"You ever live in England, mom? Or did the accent just stick because of Grandpa Alexander?"

"We lived in Beaconsfield for a very short time, while I was attending university." Alexia really had to dig out those memories, because she couldn't really remember many details from Beaconsfield—impressions of stoic manors and rivers, and her favorite spot under the willow tree, by the stream behind their mansion. Her time in university, her childhood, seemed like several lifetimes ago, and what Alexia could remember felt more like a quick sketch, an outline of something, than an actual picture. "Other than that, not really. When I married your father, I was naturalized into an American. Though I still hold British citizenship."

"Did you ever wanna go back?" Veronica looked at her. And it occurred to Alexia that this had been the first civil conversation she'd had with her daughter in a very long time.

"No, not really," said Alexia. "The political issues aside, I don't have much reason to go back. What family I had there is either dead by now, or so estranged they might as well not be relatives at all." There was also the fact that what remained of her family thought she was dead, buried in Veronica's mausoleum, and Alexia was okay with that. "Besides, I never much fancied my family. I liked your father's family better."

"Never met any of them," said Veronica.

"Most of them are dead too," she said. "Your father has a few cousins, I believe. You'd met a few of them, when you were very little. One keeps sending us bloody Christmas cards." Alexia would not tell Veronica about Martin Wesker. She had not seen Bingham since she'd stabbed him in the throat thirty-three years ago, though she was aware he was still around through his operations.

They walked in relative silence, eventually coming to a small bridge that spanned a river that ran through their property. It had some sort of Native American name, though Alexia did not remember it. Her blazer was damp, but not quite soaked, and she leaned her elbows on the guardrails, staring at the dark sluggish water. Somewhere, a frog croaked.

"Hey, mom," said Veronica, slouching against the guardrail. "So my teacher was talking about the Raccoon City Incident the other day. Did Umbrella really do all that shit? You worked for them."

"The corporation had a part in it," said Alexia. It didn't really matter if she told Veronica the truth; Umbrella had been gone for years. "But so did the American government. The President finally revealed their part in it, two years ago, in a televised speech from the White House."

"I'm guessing that's why you lost your job," said Veronica.

"Yes. I had the unfortunate distinction of being one of Umbrella's most prominent researchers. It painted an enormous target on my head. I was dragged into the trials by Spencer to testify, but it didn't go over very well." Alexia laughed derisively, scoffing. "The government exonerated themselves—as they always do when they're caught with blood on their hands. Umbrella went under not too long after that. Luckily, I still have the lab, so I've been able to pursue my independent research."

"Wish you didn't spend so much time down there," said Veronica.

Alexia slipped her arm around Veronica, and Veronica did not try to move away, or tell her to stop. "It's difficult," she admitted, huddling close. "I've never had a good work-life balance, and I'd never expected to wind up a mother—and mind you, I don't regret it at all, before you get some silly idea in your head that I don't love you. It's simply tricky, Veronica. But perhaps I haven't been trying as hard as I should to be around more."

Veronica did not say anything. She hugged her, burying her face in her shirt. It was a little awkward at first, because Alexia had never been a very touchy person; but she gradually eased into it, hugging Veronica back, the strangeness of the intimacy sloughing away because Veronica was her daughter. She noticed headlights coming up the road. Alexia did not like the look of them; the car was moving slowly.

"Veronica, go ahead back to the house," said Alexia, calmly. She did not want to unsettle her. "I'll catch up with you."

Veronica glanced at the car; it was closer now. She looked hesitant, as if she did not want to leave, but Alexia gave her a gentle push in the direction of the house and told her to go. "Mom, I don't like this," she said.

"Don't worry, dear. I know them," she lied.


	6. Interlude 3: My Old Friend

The car was a limousine. She screwed her eyes against the headlights, hearing the rocks and twigs crunching underneath its tires. Someone got out of the car and grabbed her, and Alexia tried to fight him off, but the man had hands like pneumatic clamps, and she could not shake him. He dragged her to the car and roughly shoved her inside, and the car took off, toward the highway.

The man who had grabbed her was dressed in black, and a balaclava that only showed his eyes, which burned the color of molten metal. He sat beside a dark-haired man in a charcoal suit, sunglasses, and a short groomed beard, who smelled strongly of patchouli and cigars. The stranger in the suit could not have been much younger than her, and he smiled like a skull.

"Goodness. Alexia, you still look fantastic for—I forget, it's been so long. Are you forty-five, or forty-four?" The man removed his sunglasses and tucked them inside the breast pocket of his blazer. Alexia recognized the dark old scar on his throat, near his Adam's apple. It was Bingham, though he looked much younger now, like the photograph in her grandfather's memoir. But his eyes burned the bright orange-yellow color of his silent companion's. "Admittedly, I thought you were dead," he said, and his voice sounded raspier, as if he was speaking through a phone with a weak signal. "Figured someone took your name as a means to open certain doors in the pharmaceutical markets. Glad to see it's actually you."

"I was wondering if you'd ever find me." The car was driving down the highway now, past the dark shapes of trees. Idly, Alexia thought about their drive through the Pine Barrens, when Grayson and her had visited his aunt a week before she had died.

While they talked, Bingham's companion said nothing. He stared at her, and Alexia was sure that he hated her. "It's not very hard to find someone these days," said Bingham, still smiling hollowly. "What with the internet being so liberal with personal details. Curious how cheap a person's entire history can be made available."

"I thought I was careful in concealing my location," said Alexia, frowning.

"Did a shoddy job of it," said Bingham, dusting something from his knee. In the darkness of the limousine interior, Bingham looked demonic. "When the T-Veronica started circulating the black markets, I knew something was up. A source, who shall remain unnamed, let slip that Alexia Ashford had survived the events of Antarctica, and had moved to a quaint little mansion outside Ashbury. Spencer must be kicking himself in his grave. He tried so hard to keep you out of the shit-show that had been the Raccoon Trials, yet here I am to fuck up your day."

"Was it Albert? I thought it was convenient that he turned up and knew I was looking for you," said Alexia.

"Well, okay! If you're going to _coerce_ me like that," said Bingham, grinning fiendishly. "Yes, Albert did mention it after we struck a beneficial arrangement. He would funnel your research data to me, in exchange for the location of the Red Queen computer, and the Caucasus laboratory. But I suppose that doesn't really matter now, since he's dead and everything. A shame. He was such a promising Wesker child." He slapped his thighs, and his grin widened, showing teeth the color of old ivory. "Suppose I still have Grayson. So all is not lost!"

Alexia wasn't surprised about the revelation regarding Albert Wesker. She had always known something was off, because he had shown up so conveniently. And Alexia had played right into his little farce, and that pissed her off more than the fact Wesker had back-stabbed her, because back-stabbing had been an expected part of the Umbrella work-culture. Naivety was the price she had paid for discarding fifteen years of her life; she had not been as experienced as the other researchers, and it was a humility Alexia had learned too late.

"Oh, don't look so down, Alexia," said Bingham. "I won't hurt Grayson too much. In fact, I brought you here to offer you a third—" he held up three fingers "—chance to salvage what you can of your pride." He leaned forward, still grinning like a madman. Then Bingham said, "Work for me directly. No more tricks, no more middlemen. Remember the good old days, when we worked side by side on the prototype, and made so many wonderful improvements?" He bobbed his head side to side, as if it was on a spring, sucking at his teeth. "Of course, that was up until you stabbed me in the throat. But I'm willing to let by-gones be by-gones! What's a lucrative friendship without a few bumps in the road anyway?"

"Why not reach out to Alex Wesker? I heard she was doing rather well," said Alexia, tracing the seam on her pant-leg.

"I tried, but Alex told me to fuck on off, and ran away to that little island. Shustiwhatever. I don't speak Russian, so blast trying to pronounce that damned name." Bingham paused, scratching the space between his eyes with his thumb-nail. Then, "Oh, and Claire Redfield killed her. Redfield certainly has a predilection for killing evil blonde women. Haven't you noticed that? Alex was practically your twin. Funny story, a lot of people actually thought Alex _was_ you, Alexia."

"Do you ever stop talking, Bingham? Wesker. Whatever you go by these days," said Alexia.

"Bingham's just fine. It's grown on me," said Bingham. "And no, I rather like the sound of my own voice. Anyway, what do you say to my offer, Alexia? I _strongly_ suggest you say yes. Otherwise things will end badly for you."

"No," said Alexia, automatically. "And if you go anywhere near Grayson, things will end badly for _you_."

Bingham sighed, as if the news greatly disappointed him. His quiet companion in the balaclava leaned over, and seemed to whisper something in Bingham's ear. Bingham stroked his beard meditatively, nodding. "Well, I suppose that couldn't hurt," he said, flashing a dull smile. "Okay. Don't get too rough, though. I need her to survive. For now."

The car pulled over onto the shoulder of the road. The highway was a lonely stretch of asphalt that had very little traffic, if any at all; it had been busier in the 1950s, when there had been a logging boom. But the road had slowly been forgotten as the businesses dwindled because of stricter environmental laws, and the loggers had moved on to the northwest, or to Alaska. There were no lights or sounds out here, except for the headlights, and the humming of the limousine's engine, and the rain pattering on the road, and on the trees.

The man in the balaclava shoved her out of the car and punched her without warning, and it had felt as if someone had swung a dumbbell into her jaw. Alexia went down, tasting blood in her mouth, and was rolled down into the roadside ditch. She scraped her palms on the jagged rocks embedded in the dirt, landing in a pool of watery mud. The balaclava man grabbed the lapels of her blazer and yanked her up, watching her coldly, striking her again.

Alexia did not know if it was because of the phenomenal pain, or if she had finally lost her mind, but she started laughing. "Is that all you're capable of?" she said, and spat in the balaclava man's eyes. Her saliva ignited, and the man howled, dropped her, and tried to put the fire out, but could not manage it. It cooked his flesh, and turned his skin an angry third degree red, which started to blister and crack.

"You fucking bitch," hissed the balaclava man, and his voice sounded so familiar; though Alexia was in too much pain to really pinpoint how it sounded so familiar. Eventually, the fire died out, and the man punched her, as hard as he could, and knocked Alexia back down into the mud at the bottom of the ditch. Then he piled into the limousine, and she heard Bingham say to him, "I forgot she could do that," and laugh.

The limousine drove away, leaving her in the mud, alone, and every single part of her hurting in some way. Alexia struggled to her feet, climbing out of the ditch, which had been difficult because of its steepness, because of the pain gnawing at her nerves, and because of the rain, which had reduced the dirt to slick mud.

Alexia wanted to call the house, but remembered she had left her phone there, and cursed. She wasn't even sure where she was, even though she regularly jogged down the road. Everything looked different at night; she did not even have streetlights to approximate her location. The rain clouds screened the stars from her, so Alexia had to rely on memory for directions. She knew where east and west was because she remembered, from countless drives to Ashbury and Pine Peak, and from the straightness of the road, what directions the sun came up and went down. Using that knowledge, Alexia started south, because that was the direction the house was in. Once she found the train tracks, it would be easy to find the road that went up to the mansion, because the road went under an old railroad bridge.

As she walked alongside the road, Alexia started thinking about the Pine Barrens again, and the stories Grayson had told her about the Jersey Devil, and wondered if there was a similar beast that lived in the woods here. The pain from the beating had started to subside, dulled by the T-Veronica, and allowed her mind to focus, compounding the details of her own psyching out until she felt afraid. And Alexia found it funny, because she had seen zombies, hunters, crimson heads, bandersnatches, and every other grotesque T-Virus sub-type Umbrella had produced, yet the thought of some mysterious beast that lived in the woods frightened her.

Alexia walked for a long time, and had not seen a single car. Though it was a warm summer rain, her clothes were soaked, and she was uncomfortable because they were soaked. When clothes reached a certain saturation point, they had that unclean sticky feeling of old band-aids, or dirty bandages, and that was precisely how they felt right now.

Eventually she found the tracks, and further down the highway, the railroad bridge. She pushed herself, legs aching, up the long winding road. The road went deep into the woods, curving past trees and ponds, and across the small bridge that spanned the river with the Native American name she could never remember. Here, the road went uphill, then leveled out and went on for another mile.

The mansion crested into view, and Alexia had never been happier to see it. She crossed the yard, past the marble Grecian woman, and went through the front doors. She hated tracking mud into the house, but did it reluctantly, the floorboards creaking under her shoes. She had not seen Grayson's car out front, and wondered if he had gone to look for her.

Upstairs, Alexia took off her dirty clothes and shoes, and dropped them into a hamper. She showered, noticing a few bruises on her legs and arms, probably from when the balaclava man had rolled her into the ditch. But the T-Veronica would heal them soon, so she did not worry.

Grayson came home an hour later, and found her in the sun-room. "Jesus, Alexia. You had us worried." He sat down opposite her. "Veronica came home and said she saw a weird car. Poor kid was worried sick, but I told her it'd be okay, I'd find you, and sent her to bed." He looked her up and down. "You okay? You look like shit," he added.

Alexia knew that Grayson was talking about her expression. The bruises and cuts had healed, but she was exhausted, and more than likely looked it. "Bingham found us," she said.

Grayson's expression collapsed, becoming unreadable. There was a cold glint in his cat-gold eyes.

"I know," she said, reading his face. Alexia picked up her tea and sipped. Then, "He had a man with him. He was infected, like Bingham. I saw his eyes, though not his face, because he was wearing a balaclava. Beat the living shit out of me, though it worked in my favor. My blood is combustible. The more I bleed, the more dangerous I am. I spat in his face, and probably melted one of his eyes shut." She laughed.

"You think it's Albert?" said Grayson, frowning. "Maybe he survived Kijuju."

"No. Bingham himself said Albert was dead. Right before he started talking about experimenting on you."

"Damn. Grandpa's real dedicated. I don't know if I should be touched, or scared."

"A bit of both, I imagine," said Alexia, smiling. Then the smile vanished. She said, "He knows where we live, Grayson. But we can't leave. Not when I'm on the cusp of a major breakthrough with the modified T-Veronica."

"Who said anything about leaving?" said Grayson, flashing teeth. "I like this house. Reminds me of the old Rockfort place. Besides, New Arklay's locked up tighter than a cat's ass. I wouldn't really worry about it. Bingham comes here, we'll both kick his teeth in. You can do your crazy fire tricks, and I'll just wallop him."


	7. Part One - Breach

New Arklay was a complex maze of fluorescent corridors and laboratories connected by a network of lifts and stairwells, and extended deep underground, and reminded Grayson of the cutting-edge clinics seen in science fiction movies. Grayson wasn't sure of the exact depth of the facility, but knew, from what Alexia had told him, that it was several kilometers larger than the original Arklay laboratory.

A train, which followed the old route of the Ecliptic (Ashbury, often called Second Raccoon by the locals, had been another major Umbrella hub during the company's heyday, and was only a hundred or so miles from the Raccoon Quarantine) shuttled the researchers in from the city and outlying towns. Alexia enjoyed their privacy, and did not rent rooms to the researchers. Grayson had ridden it once, and had not liked it; the scientists had packed into the cars like the Japanese did on their morning commutes, and being a big guy, the lack of space had been painful.

He always felt out of place whenever he came down into New Arklay. The aseptic whiteness of the facility always made him feel as if he was dirtying the place just by being there. Grayson saw the girl he was sure was named Valerie, who was reading something on a clipboard, and said, "Hey, Valerie. Have you seen Alexia anywhere?"

Grayson had never really looked at Valerie until now, but realized she was pretty cute. She had reddish-gold hair cut in one of those angular futurist bobs, light brown freckles, and big eyes the color of Pensacola water. "My name's Victoria," she corrected, frowning.

"Right. I meant to say that. Victoria," he lied.

Victoria rolled her eyes. Then she said, pointing in the direction with her pen, "The Chief Researcher's down in the specimen labs. I'd suggest you wear a coat down there at least, Mr. Harman."

"Lab coat's not gonna protect anyone against a zombie bite," he said, grinning. Then Grayson made for the specimen labs, before Victoria could throw a rebuttal.

The specimen labs were four levels down and required mid-clearance. Grayson was cleared for most of the facility—except for the truly dangerous parts, like tyrant storage, or the hunter kennel—and punched his code into the computer, which was molded into the wall beside an automatic door labeled SPECIMEN LABS in stenciled yellow letters.

He was in a long, dark hallway which resembled an enormous line-up room, rows of doors and shatterproof windows on either side of him. Each door was automatic and wired to a small computer terminal. The rooms looked like sterile jail cells, and other rooms were blood-spattered spaces where ravenous undead squatted like Asians and gnawed on raw hunks of human meat, which had probably once belonged to their feeders. Normally, the researchers used cadaver meat to feed to the zombies; but sometimes a feeder got careless and wound up as the meal instead.

Grayson found Alexia inside one of the cells, and she was with a female specimen. His first thought was that Alexia was fucking crazy, because the specimen was not restrained, and had gone mutant. It was emaciated, and its skin was the color of corpses, eyes foggy with cataracts. It moved unnaturally, as if it was mechanical, and the hardware was beginning to short out. Grayson tapped his code into the computer and went inside, the door sealing behind him. The moment he stepped into the cell, the woman-thing's head swiveled as if it was on a ball-joint, and she sniffed at the air, dropping to all fours and skittering at him.

Grayson side-stepped, and the woman-thing crashed into the door. She turned around, bluish bile, which had the consistency of crude oil, and the unpleasant tang of hydrochloric acid or chlorine, dripped from between the cracks of her teeth and onto the floor, sizzling. The creature spat at him, and some of the bile-stuff caught him in the cheek and started eating through the skin, an intense burning sensation spreading through his face and numbing it.

Alexia looked at the creature, and it froze. "Let me look at your face, Grayson," she said, cupping his face and inspecting the burn.

"It hurts like a motherfucker." Grayson could feel the stuff eating away at his flesh, but knew it would be a short-lived pain—and it was. The wound started to heal, thanks to Bingham's virus, and the pain dulled in increments, then went away entirely. "Jesus Christ," he said, rubbing his cheek. "What was that?"

Alexia stopped fussing over him and beamed. "I did it," she said, and her eyes had that proud, crazy gleam. "Remember I'd mentioned I was working on further improvements to the T-Veronica? That I was on the cusp of a major breakthrough? This is it." She gestured excitedly at the woman-thing. Then she said, "I decoded the Queen Ant strain, Grayson. Synthetic pheromones. It's still a little crude, but it works, and that's what's important."

Grayson stared at Alexia's project, who idled in the corner like a catatonic. "I want to fucking kill it," he said.

"Go ahead. It's essentially a failure," she said, stepping aside. Alexia smirked. "Besides, I like watching you kill things. You're so enthusiastic about it."

 _Good_ , he thought. He would show the piece of shit what he thought about its spit-trick. Grayson would have been more enthusiastic about the killing had the thing not already been technically dead—there was no fun in torturing something that did not understand pain. He choked it, and the thing wriggled, clawing at his shirt like an alarmed cat. Grayson snapped its neck with a loud brittle twig noise, and the body went limp. And just because he felt like it, Grayson smashed its head against the wall, then again, until there was nothing left of its skull but bone-splinters and grapefruit pulp.

"You know how to turn a woman on, don't you?" teased Alexia.

Grayson dropped the body and grinned. "Certain kinds," he said, and kissed her. Then wiped the blood from his hand on her lab coat. "Hey, thanks," he added.

Alexia made a face and said, "No trouble."

"What did it spit in my face anyway?" They walked out of the cell, side by side. "Acid?"

"Something like that," said Alexia. She changed into a fresh lab coat and disposed of the bloody one in a bio-hazard receptacle. "A highly concentrated venom. You see, when Alexander became Nosferatu, his body started to generate a poison that the Arklay blue-weed couldn't heal, even in its most concentrated form. If you weren't infected with the prototype, you would be dead from the poison within—" Alexia glanced at her watch, a vintage Rolex with a pale leather strap— "the next ten minutes."

"Shit," he said.

"Well, given the shape you're in, which is very good, you might stretch it to twenty," said Alexia.

"Hey, whatever happened to Alexander anyway?" asked Grayson, pushing his hands inside his pockets, ambling past a pair of researchers who were chatting quietly about some project, and whether or not the female researcher was still interested in dinner.

"Truth be told, I'm not entirely sure," said Alexia. "Albert either killed him, or the explosion did." She shrugged. "In any case, he's dead now, so it doesn't really matter."

"What're you planning on doing with these thralls of yours anyway?" Grayson vaguely remembered Alexia's initial plan, when she had been thirteen, and ambitious in the way only a kid with something to prove could be, had to do with the dynamics and hierarchy of ant colonies. "You know, once you smooth it all out."

"I don't like spoiling surprises, Grayson," said Alexia, smiling mischievously.

"Okay. If that's the game you want to play."

Alexia said, "I was studying an interesting case I happened across, in some of Albert's files." She looked at him. "Apparently, there was a cult in Spain called the Los Illuminados, which was headed by a man named Osmund Saddler. He discovered this parasite, the plaga, in fossils beneath a castle owned by a local eccentric named Ramon Salazar. But to the point: those parasites have, in their raw states, a limited ability to control their hosts like puppets. Albert modified the baseline plaga, which created the infected in Kijuju, and I modified that sample using the T-Veronica strain I'd found in the Queen Ant..."

"So what you're getting at is mind-control," said Grayson. He stared at her. Then, "Jesus Christ, you should write shitty b-horror plots for Hollywood, Alexia. Actually, scratch that. Our entire life is a shitty b-horror plot."

Alexia stepped in front of him, folding her arms. She gave him a knock-it-off look, which she had perfected in their years of marriage. "With the strains I've synthesized from Bingham's prototype inside you, and this plaga parasite and the T-Veronica? The possibilities are fucking limitless, Grayson. I've been tinkering with this new T-Veronica variant since Antarctica, and finally have gotten over the biggest hurdle: the control. My biggest issue now is intelligence retention, because mindless thralls are of no use to my plans."

"What about you? You were still able to talk and shit when you went mutant."

"I was able to keep my intelligence in mutated form because the virus had bonded with my DNA, due to the fifteen years of cryostasis," she explained. A mousy-looking researcher passed and said hello to Alexia, though Alexia ignored him. "I've tried replicating the process with liquid nitrogen, and short-term cryocoolers on human specimens infected with the new T-Veronica variant, but haven't seen much success."

They started to walk, and Grayson listened. He was interested in Alexia's research, even if he did not understand it. Besides, Grayson had discovered a long time ago that it was easier to let Alexia talk when she was enthusiastic about something. If Alexia did not get it all out, she would bring it up again later anyway, and it would probably be when he did not feel like talking—and then they would just bicker until one of them got so fed up, they decided to sleep on the couch.

"I've been studying Carla Radames' work with the C-Virus, which utilizes a sort of flash-freeze to incubate the virus so it can bond with the host, but it's still not enough." Alexia frowned, looking up at the ceiling. "Her research regarding the enhanced C-Virus strain died with her. If I could _just_ get my bloody hands on her research, I think I would finally have my missing puzzle piece."

"Enhanced C-Virus?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

Alexia nodded. "Created through a process of synthesizing blood from Jake Muller, Albert's son. He's a twenty-something hoodlum from Edonia, some former Eastern bloc slum. I did a little research. His mother initially immigrated to America from Edonia and changed her name, but when Albert took off on her, she went back to Edonia."

"Somehow, I can't imagine Wesker having sex with anyone," said Grayson.

"Strangely enough, neither can I," said Alexia.

"You ever see the Superman comics where Lois basically gets killed by carrying Superman's baby? I feel like it would be like that. But more like that scene from Alien, after Albert spat a parasite into her mouth, or something—" Grayson pantomimed an explosion—"Boom. Mutant fetus jumping out of her belly."

Alexia smacked his arm and laughed.

"So what happened to Junior anyway?"

"He was taken into custody by the American government, so we can't reach him. But I've been thinking, perhaps Veronica would be a viable substitute?"

"You aren't seriously suggesting that you want to experiment on your own fucking daughter? On _our_ daughter."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Alexia, and she looked offended, as if he had just called her a bitch, then insulted her mother and her intelligence in the same conversation. "Veronica is going to take over my research one day, Grayson. That aside, Veronica is my daughter, who I love immensely, even if I'm not very good at showing it. No, I would only need a blood sample." She smacked him, hard, on the chest. Then Alexia said, "Don't you dare suggest— _ever again_ —that I would do something to hurt her. Do you hear me?"

"Sorry. Sometimes I forget you found something of a conscience since Antarctica," he said, grinning.

Alexia smiled coldly. "Don't misunderstand. I'm not a complete soft-touch," she said, patting his right pectoral. Then, "Veronica is the daughter of two genetically modified humans, Grayson. Think about it. Jake was the son of only one."

Before Grayson could say anything, an alarm suddenly exploded, red lights flashing in the halls. A cool approximated voice looped: _Security breach detected_. _Security breach detected_. _Security breach detected_... A researcher scurried by without looking at them, sweating, eyes huge with fear, and stumbled around a corner.

Alexia started walking away, in long, quick strides. Grayson gently got her by the wrist. "Where are you going?" he asked. "What's going on, Alexia?"

"Don't you hear? Security breach, Grayson. There's an intruder in the laboratory." Alexia yanked her arm away from him and hurried off.


	8. Part One - The Balaclava Man

Grayson wasn't really sure what to do, now that Alexia had stormed off. So he decided to make himself useful and went the other way, and violently neutralize the intruder before they got their hands on something dangerous.

A few scientists scrambled past him as if he was invisible. Grayson heard gunshots. He ran toward the noise and found several bodies, all shot in the head. The kills were professional; each of the scientists had been shot between the eyes, holes in their skulls like bloody bindis. Grayson went further down the hallway, dead faces staring up at him with wide plastic eyes. Some of their necks were bent at odd angles, their crumpled bodies left wherever they had fallen.

He did not find anyone. Whoever the intruder was, they were either very fast, or they were working with someone. Grayson searched every laboratory in that wing, but turned up nothing; though there was broken glass and equipment in several of the labs, as if someone had been searching for something and had torn the place apart.

Then he thought about the server room, where the facility kept its digital records. If he was an intruder in a high-tech lab, that would probably be the place he would go.

Grayson made his way down there, finding more bodies. In the server room, he found a man in black, who wore a balaclava. He remembered what Alexia had said about a man in a balaclava, and knew it was the same one, because Grayson did not believe in coincidences, and was sure Bingham had sent him to pilfer data. "Hey," he said. "No idea how you got in here, but you're not going to get out, man. Bad move."

The man ejected a small disc from the mainframe, and he turned around. His eyes were bright orange. He pointed a gun at Grayson, and it was weird-looking gun, like something out of a cyberpunk flick.

"Go ahead. Bullets don't do shit to me," said Grayson, spreading his arms.

"These are anti-B.O.W rounds, asshole," said The Balaclava Man, and he shot.

Grayson did not move out of the way quickly enough, and the bullet ripped through his shoulder, a mounting intense pain creeping down his arm, spreading throughout his chest and body until everything went numb and cold. The Balaclava Man kicked him hard in the jaw with a steel-toe boot, and Grayson went sideways, tasting blood, curling up on the tile and wanting to just die because he could not handle the pain.

"That round's ripping you apart on a cellular level," said The Balaclava Man, and he kicked Grayson again, sent him skidding across the floor. "Maybe you'll live if Alexia moves fast enough. But I doubt the bitch is gonna make it in time."

Grayson could not breathe. Every breath came shallow, and hurt. His heart was pounding in his rib-cage, at hummingbird speed. He rolled onto his back and groaned. The pain was opening inside him like a kaleidoscope, and for the first time in his life, he wanted to cry from the sheer pain of it. Grayson was sure he would die; Alexia did not know where he had gone, and she would not reach him in time...

He heard a noise, like something crumbling away, and watched a dark line slide across his vision. Grayson heard a wet meat noise, and saw The Balaclava Man, through the pain-haze, impaled on a thorny vine, whipped and tossed around as if he was a toy. Grayson swore he heard The Balaclava Man say, "Not this shit again," but could not be sure.

The Balaclava Man managed to free himself, dripping blood onto the tile from his ruined gut. But he did not die. He fired an anti-B.O.W round into the tentacle, and it screeched like an animal in pain, and retreated. Then The Balaclava Man was running, and gone, and Grayson was too tired to keep his eyes open anymore.

He could not have been out very long, or at least hoped he had not been out long, because the alarm had not finished cycling. His nerves were live wires, shooting currents of hot electric pain. Alexia hovered over him, her lab coat spattered with irregular red blooms, a worried look on her face. "I won't lie to you, Grayson. You look bad," she said, touching his cheek. "I've given you a stabilizer for now, but it won't last. You need serious treatment."

"You saved me," he said, and it hurt to talk.

"I've been cultivating that new plant since we'd moved here," she said, stonily. Alexia helped him up, and they walked out of the server-room.

As they walked, Grayson noticed more dead researchers; but these researchers did not die as kindly as the ones who had been shot. These scientists were impaled on long pulsating vines like haunted house props, the walls spattered with their blood, which looked even more menacing in the flashing redness of the emergency lights. "Why'd you kill them?" he asked, once he managed to hold his breath long enough to sound words.

"There was a mole," said Alexia coldly. She did not even look at her staff strung up on the walls. "Victoria. She helped the intruder gain access to the laboratory. He used the train. And someone helped her by funneling her my passwords. It's how the intruder lifted and wiped the data from the mainframe. So they all died, because they were all potential accessories."

"Wiped?"

"My research is gone," said Alexia bleakly. "Everything. Gone."

As they passed one of the laboratories, Grayson saw what remained of Victoria. She was nothing but a charred husk now. He could smell cooked meat and burnt hair, and only knew it was Victoria because Alexia had told him so.

"I'm sorry about your research," he said, because Grayson felt that he should say something. After all, if he had not been so careless, he would not have been shot, and he would have killed the intruder.

"I'm more worried about you right now, Grayson," said Alexia. She glanced at Victoria's corpse. Then she said, "I didn't kill her right away. I burned her slowly. I read once that burning alive is one of the most painful ways to go."

"What's going to happen to New Arklay now?" he asked, as they climbed into the lift that would take them up to the mansion.

"Quarantine protocols will kill off what remains of my specimens," said Alexia, expressionless. "After that, I'm not sure. My research is gone. Years of work. Gone. Because of some red-haired bitch." She looked at him, and there was pure coldness in her eyes. Then she said, "When you've recovered, we're going after Bingham. I will get my research back. And I'll take his head as a trophy to decorate my desk."

"I'm guessing the intruder got away?" he said.

"He did. On the train."

It took him three days to recover from the anti-B.O.W round. He had been bed-ridden for all three days, in and out of intense pain-flashes, while Alexia had administered a series of injections to heal the necrosis, and jump-start his immune system. As Alexia had explained it, the bullet had been a fletchette tipped with an improved P-epsilon compound, which had attacked his system like a cancer, targeting the beneficial infected cells and killing them off in concentrated micro-bursts while simultaneously eliminating white blood cells that attacked the infection. If Alexia had not reached him in time, he would have died, and the thought was sobering because of how close he had come to the fatal precipice.

They had kept things quiet for Veronica's sake. Alexia had told her that he had come down with a particularly bad cold, and Veronica had bought it. She had even gone out to buy him ginger ale, and chicken noodle soup from one of his favorite diners in Ashbury.

He picked the celery and carrots out of the soup. Then said to Alexia, "Any idea where to even look for Bingham?"

"No. But we have time. I encrypted every single file. It'll take him a while to crack. Besides, he won't be able to create a super-virus overnight. I hope." Alexia sat on the edge of their bed and stared out the window. She wore a collared white blouse and tight black jeans. "I have the worst feeling in my stomach right now, Grayson."

Grayson finished his soup, then sat behind Alexia, legs dangling on either side of her, chest pressed against her back. He slipped his arms around her midsection and said, "We'll find him, Alexia. You got contacts, old connections. And look at it this way? He still doesn't know about Veronica. You said her blood could be pretty important."

"Do you always find the silver lining?" she asked, smiling and leaning back against him.

"If I didn't, you'd have turned into a depressed drunk by now." Grayson kissed her head. Her hair smelled of vanilla and lavender. Then, inhaling deeply of her scent, he said, "Thanks again for saving me, Alexia. I mean it."

"You would have done the same thing for me, Grayson." Alexia tipped her head back to look at him. "We're all we've got, now that Alfred and Scott are gone. You and I, and Veronica."


	9. Interlude 4: Jill Valentine

Their superiors had rotated their unit out and sent another to oversee the last stages of the Iran quarantine, which Jill was happy about it because she had not liked it over there for a dozen reasons. The culture had been too militantly religious and strange to her, and the situation there had dredged up bad memories about the Raccoon Incident.

Jill drove, and was still not used to seeing so many trees and paved roads, and hills that were not made of sand and sun-baked rock. It was getting darker now, so she switched on the high beams. The sky beyond the trees was a pale twilight purple streaked with pink and gold, the sun a red disc in the sky. If she wasn't driving, or pressed for time, she would have stopped and taken pictures.

Chris sat beside her in the passenger seat, the window cracked and blowing through his dark hair. He scrolled through his phone, smoking a Marlboro, the cherry glowing hot red-orange in the darkness of the car, catching in his eyes like ruby pinpoints. He had picked up the habit in recent years, and Jill had tried to convince Chris to go cold turkey, or maybe use a patch, but he always told her no because smoking calmed him, and he liked being calm.

Claire sat in the back-seat, half-asleep, her arms folded protectively across her chest. Jill and Chris had BSAA business in Ashbury, and Claire needed to stop at the TerraSave branch-office so she could pick up her next rotation, which, Claire had said, would probably land her in China because the Chinese were still suffering the effects of the Lanshiang Incident—mostly isolated cases instigated by local gang-lords, or Russian mobsters who had muscled in on the Xinjiang underworld, who had bought the viruses from the black clinics.

Chris's phone rang. "Yeah," he said, listening. He was quiet for a few minutes, kicking his shoes up on the dashboard and puffing lazily on his cigarette. Then, "Just stick to the plan." Chris paused. "I know it's a risk. But if you don't give it to him, he's not gonna trust you. We just need the location. That's it. You bugged it, right?"

"Please tell me he bugged it," said Jill aloud, watching the route signs along the road.

"Yeah. Claire's here." Chris passed the phone to Claire, who said, "Thanks," and snatched it from Chris's hand, piling into the very back of the SUV so they could not hear her conversation. Then, to her, "He bugged it, Jill. Wants us to meet him in at the Green Dynamics construction site tomorrow, midnight sharp."

Jill nodded. She felt relief, as if they had been hiking Everest for the past several years and were finally near the top. Martin Bingham had been elusive, and had led the BSAA from one dead-end to the next. The man was a talented magician who could vanish at a second's notice, leaving no trace of himself behind. If they had not gotten the New Arklay lead, they probably would not have found him, and he would still be hiding somewhere in the world under the pretense of a clean doctor, while he turned profits in the black clinics and expanded his pharmaceutical underworld.

The New Arklay lead had been hard on Chris. She remembered how angry Chris had gotten when he had heard Alexia Ashford was still alive, and in operation. Jill had also gotten angry, because Alexia had been the reason her relationship with Grayson had not worked out. She wasn't mad that Grayson had left her, at least not anymore, because she had Chris now, and Jill was sure she loved him. Jill was mad because she had never really gotten closure. They had broken up over a phone-call, and she never heard from Grayson again, not even an occasional hello on the holidays. It felt as if their three years together had meant nothing, and after what Jill had heard about Grayson from their connection, it probably had meant nothing to him.

"Looking a little introspective, Jill," said Chris, and he smiled around his cigarette, finishing it off and flicking the butt out the window.

"Just thinking." Jill did not want to tell Chris what she was thinking about, and it wasn't because Chris was insecure and unable to accept the fact that she had exes, but because she did not want to seem hung up, even though she was sure Chris would understand.

"You worried about Dr. Bingham?"

"Not really," she said. "Another ex-Umbrella maniac. Nothing new there."

"Speaking of maniacs, I still can't believe Alexia's alive," said Chris, running a hand through his hair. He looked at her, his eyes glinting in the dashboard lights. "Almost two decades since Antarctica. Nobody believed me and Claire. Now Alexia's running the other half of the black clinics. Shit. I don't get it, Jill. I blew the bitch up with a laser."

Claire leaned between them and handed Chris his phone back, who shifted in his seat and slipped it inside his back pocket. She said, "I told you there was something off about that Alexia we fought, Chris."

"I know, Goob. I wish I'd listened to you."

"Well, Ashford got dealt a pretty hard blow," said Jill, slowing down and coasting around a sharp curve in the road. "It won't put her out of commission, but she's gonna limp pretty bad for a while."

"Good," said Claire, sitting back. "I'm going to make her limp for real when I see her."

"I'll make sure you get a few good punches in, Claire," said Jill, grinning.

Two hours of navigating hilly back-roads, they arrived in Ashbury. Jill could not help but notice how closely it resembled Raccoon; she guessed survivors from the original Raccoon had settled down here and capitalized on their trauma. There was even a street called Raccoon Way, which had been a careful replication of Ennerdale Street. Jill felt a painful pang of nostalgia then, and anger, because it disgusted her that people had commercialized the Raccoon Incident, and now flaunted Raccoon Way as a tourist attraction instead of a memorial, in true American fashion.

Jill parked the car outside the Terra Save building, which was a tall glass skyscraper in Ashbury's downtown, the words TERRA SAVE spelled out in fiberglass Futura font above the automatic doors. Claire got out of the car, leaning inside Chris's window. "I'll meet you guys at the hotel," she said. "If Alexia and Harman show up, call me. I owe them both some broken teeth." Then Claire went inside the building.

She drove to the hotel and checked in. Jill only had one bag, which she did not bother unpacking. They ordered take-out, because Jill did not feel like eating out after she had driven, non-stop, for several hours, and ate at the window-side table, which overlooked the bright lights and tourist-bustle of Raccoon Way. Chris was mostly silent, digging around a waxy carton of chow mein with a plastic fork.

Jill could not contain her curiosity anymore, and asked, "What exactly happened with Grayson, back in Antarctica?"

"He's not the guy you dated twenty years ago," said Chris, slurping noodles.

She poked at her chicken and broccoli, taking small bites here and there, because Jill was not as hungry as she had thought she was. "I know," she said.

"Don't know how he survived," said Chris, and he shook his head. "Claire shot him in the head." He stared absently into his carton. Then, "Or maybe I just thought she'd shot him in the head? I don't know. It's been a long time, Jill."

"You mentioned that before," said Jill. She had her guesses about Grayson's survival, none of which were good. Her brief Kijuju stint with Wesker had enlightened her to some pretty bleak possibilities. "It's got me worried."

Chris looked at her. "Yeah, me too. Our mutual friend told me some things." He finished his chow mein and tossed the carton into the trash. "Grayson's the new Albert Wesker. And that's a scary thought because Grayson, unlike Albert, is an unpredictable fucking psychopath who will do anything for another unpredictable psychopath."

"You know how they say history repeats itself?" said Jill, bleakly. She managed to finish her chicken and broccoli, then threw it out. She could not imagine Grayson as Albert, but from the descriptions they had gotten—black suits, sunglasses, a mean mechanical coldness—it had already happened the moment Wesker had died in Kijuju. Jill could not decide if it was fate, that Grayson was meant to take up Wesker's mantle, conscious emulation, or if it had been an unconscious self-fulfilling prophecy.

"Yeah. I know," said Chris, cracking the window and lighting another cigarette with a black disposable BIC. He blew a cloud of blue smoke. "Now we're sitting in a city that looks almost exactly like Raccoon, dealing with a hidden laboratory in the mountains, and a crazy scientist and her crazy infected pet. Shit. It's like we time-traveled back to 1998. Sure Umbrella didn't re-open somewhere, and we just missed the news?"

Jill laughed, getting up and rubbing his back. "I think we're okay right now."

Chris beamed, then kissed her. He said, "We're okay until Ashford _really_ gets pissed off. You didn't see her in action like I did, Jill. You think Nemesis was bad? At least Nemesis couldn't really think, and just followed whatever orders the scientists gave it. Ashford? She's a rogue British Dr. Strangelove."

"We should have killed her," said Jill.

"We were in another country, Jill, and she was off-grid for a long time," said Chris. "Besides, it's not that easy. If a laser to the face didn't kill her, what makes you think guns and conventional weapons will? She's gonna be a difficult beast to neutralize, and she's more valuable to the BSAA alive than dead."

Jill knew that. Alexia had several connections throughout the black clinics, and if they could get her to talk, the BSAA could find and destroy other bioweapon caches and stockpiles before the radicals got the chance to circulate the stuff.


	10. Part One - Garden Talks

Grayson had the news on, and for the sixth day in the row, the newscasters were talking about a flu epidemic sweeping through Ashbury, and the fear-mongers were saying it was potential biological terrorism, a modified Zika strain introduced into the population by Islamic extremists. Of course, he did not believe a word of that shit, and knew it was another cheap distraction tactic, in a long line of cheap distraction tactics, to keep people's eyes off the real news—how one of their current presidential candidates was a bona fide criminal whose hands had been caught in the proverbial cookie jar by determined hackers, or how it was the American government supplying arms to the radicals and kicking up shit in the Middle East.

He turned the news off and decided to find Alexia. Since New Arklay had essentially been shuttered until the decontamination protocols fully cycled, Alexia had dedicated her newfound free-time to contacting old connections and following the bread-crumbs Bingham had left behind—transaction logs, shipments, conversations with mutual friends and business acquaintances. Last Grayson had spoken to her, Alexia had been sure she was on the right track to finding Bingham's laboratory, the matrix of which his illicit pharmaceutical empire had sprung, though Grayson had his doubts because Bingham wasn't so careless that he would have left enough details that would lead them to the heart of his operation.

Surprisingly, Alexia wasn't glued to her phone, and occupied with yet another dead-end conversation with some military dignitary she had sold T-Veronica. He found her outside, in his garden, and she was with Veronica. They were actually talking, which Grayson found weird, because Veronica was usually aloof to her mother, or flat-out angry at her. He guessed, now that Alexia wasn't preoccupied with her research, they had finally found some middle-ground.

As he walked up, Grayson heard Veronica talking about someone from school. "This kid, Danny Bertolucci, his dad was killed back in the Raccoon Incident," said Veronica. She wore an over-sized Siouxsie and the Banshees shirt, leggings, and a red beanie. "Anyway, Danny got real sick couple of days ago. A lot of kids have been getting real sick, mom. Almost half my homeroom was absent today. They're saying it's Zika, but I don't buy that shit."

Alexia did not look happy. "Half your homeroom was absent?" she said.

"Yeah," said Veronica. Her backpack had been thrown on the ground, beside the marble bench they sat on, a messy collection of notebooks, textbooks, and pens inside it. "I've been super careful. I stay away from the water fountains, just like you and dad told me to, and keep my distance from people who're looking queasy. I can't afford to fall behind in AP classes."

Grayson stood by them, listening. Alexia said, "Veronica, tell me about Danny. How sick did he look?"

"Jesus, mom. It was bad. We were in calculus, and he comes in, pale as a ghost. We said, 'Hey, Danny, you okay?' and he says, 'Yeah, I'm fine', and sits down at his desk like usual. So we're halfway through class, and Danny's been struggling the entire time, barely holding it together. Then he just explosively pukes all over his desk, and his eyes start rolling up, and the teacher says it looks like a seizure and calls the nurse. They get paramedics to come pick him up, and he goes. Nobody's seen Danny since, and his best friend Marcedius tells us Danny's up at St. Camillus in intensive care. I have no idea what kinda bug is going around right now, mom, but it's nasty."

"Were there similar incidents?" asked Alexia, her expression grave and unsmiling.

"This morning, actually," said Veronica, slipping her fingers under her beanie and scratching her head. A dragonfly zipped by her head, glinting silver-blue in the June sun, and she swatted at it, missing. It darted away, over the koi pond, and vanished in the reeds. "Fucking bugs. Anyway, yeah, this morning. This girl named Jamie. I wasn't in the class it happened in, but I heard from some classmates about it. Same thing that happened to Danny, except Jamie started coughing up blood. Her best friend Elle's in my homeroom, and she was a wreck. I felt bad. Man, I can't wait until school's out for the summer. Couple more days, and I won't have to worry about catching some nasty bug."

"You're not feeling sick at all, are you, kiddo?" asked Grayson, watching her.

"No, I'm fine, dad," said Veronica, grinning.

Alexia stood up and said, "Veronica, I'll be right back. I need to talk with your father."

"Sure. I'll be here doing homework, mom."

They ambled away, down the flagstone path that wound through the flowerbeds, and around the koi pond and reeds. "Have you heard anything about Bingham?" he asked, thrusting his hands inside his pockets. He watched the stones moving under his shoes. Grass had started to tuft the cracks; Grayson reminded himself that he needed to get out here with the trimmer.

"No, and that worries me. And with all this 'flu' business being talked about? It's got me nervous, Grayson."

"You think it might be an infection?"

"It could be," said Alexia seriously. She wore a thin white shirt, blazer, and jeans, which she had rolled up past her ankles. "The symptoms Veronica described aligns with the symptoms exhibited by subjects who have been exposed to the T-Virus. I'm worried we could possibly be looking at a second Raccoon City."

"But if that's the case, why the fuck did Bingham go through all the trouble of hiring Balaclava Guy to steal stuff out of your lab, when he's got his own viral shit?"

"Bingham told me once that he wasn't in the business of producing shoddy mass-produced bioweapons," said Alexia, hands on her hips. "And given Bingham's perfectionism, he wouldn't unleash his Wesker virus on an entire city population. He wouldn't think they're good enough, and besides, he'd have to be selective of his hosts to ensure the virus took properly, like in your case. His vision isn't like Spencer's and Albert's had been, where they wanted to remake the entire human race in some mad quest for godhood. Bingham's vision is perfection."

"Why'd he infect the Balaclava Guy then?" he asked.

"Probably another guinea pig for Bingham's latest modification on the virus," she said.

"I thought he needed people with similar DNA for his virus, Alexia."

"He hasn't been able to experiment on you, and Scott's dead. He might have developed a technique to artificially introduce his DNA to the host."

"So Balaclava Guy could be some weird half-brother of mine?"

"Possibly, but I'm not so sure," said Alexia, staring ahead of her, contemplative. "There was something different about the Balaclava Man's infection. Almost as if it was a weaker strain. He roughed me up, but he didn't move or fight like you, or Albert." She rubbed her arms. "Had a hell of a grip, though."

"Why's Bingham still need your research, Alexia? Didn't he get what he wanted from experimenting on me?"

"He thinks he can continue pushing the boundaries of his virus," said Alexia, looking at him. "Bingham will never think it's good enough. He's fatally vain, Grayson. My research adds to his virus, and he'll continue to add to the virus in his insane quest for viral transcendence. The good thing is, one day he's going to make a mess of things, and probably die by his own doing."

"What do you mean?"

"Bingham keeps adding and adding to the virus's base strain, modifying and re-modifying entire DNA sequences with reckless enthusiasm. It's like piling heavy things onto a rowboat: it will collapse eventually. As you once said to me when we were children, DNA is the most precarious material a scientist can fuck around with. He's going to create detrimental mutations in his genetic re-writes, Grayson. Huge typos in his genetic sequences."

"He'll wind up looking like Rocky Dennis from Mask, or fucking Sloth from The Goonies."

Alexia burst out laughing.

"Have you heard anything about Balaclava Guy? Find out who he is?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No. I initially thought it was HUNK. I remembered the name, after you'd mentioned him in Antarctica," said Alexia. "The intruder fit the criterion of a special ops agent. But I finally got into contact with HUNK, through a Russian connection. He's been free-lancing in Europe as a contract killer, ever since Umbrella went under. He was on a job when the break-in happened. I looked into it, and his alibi checked out. He was busy killing a diplomat in a Brussels hotel. Also, he says hello."

"Good to know HUNK's still kicking," said Grayson, smiling.

"I don't know why Bingham would want to infect Ashbury, if that's what he's doing," said Alexia. "I can't see him gaining anything from it. If anything, it draws attention to him, because his business has been on the BSAA radar for years, longer than mine. He's not political, so it's not some sort of statement, I'm sure. He has another angle, Grayson."

"Maybe we should leave Ashbury, just in case?" he suggested.

"We can't. I know the intruder is still in the area, Grayson. With my research. I can feel it in my gut."

"Alexia, your research isn't worth more than our daughter," said Grayson. "If it was just me, it'd be different. But Veronica's a kid with no experience in this sort of shit, and I don't want to see her get hurt—and neither do you, I'm pretty sure."

"You could always leave without me, Grayson, and I could catch up," she said, staring at him, her mouth a thin, hard line. "I need that research back. It's imperative. What if someone brings it to the attention of the feds? Do you _want_ me to get locked up in some military prison somewhere? And that's assuming they don't give me the death penalty first."

"You know I can't leave you," he said, frowning.

"I'm capable of protecting myself, Grayson."

"I know that. You're a fucking badass, Alexia. But I love you, and I don't want to see Bingham hurt you."

"Then stay with me, and help me get my research back," she said. "Veronica will be safe with us, Grayson."

Grayson could not really argue that point; Veronica was safest with them, because they had the necessary experience and power to keep her safe. "All right," he said finally. "We'll do this your way, Alexia. But we need to keep a close eye on Veronica. Especially if she's a potential target for Bingham."

"I was already way ahead of you," she said, flashing a white smile. "I picked her up myself at the bus-stop, outside the railroad bridge. And starting tomorrow, I'm going to drive her to and from school, until she's out for the summer."

"She's going to hate that," he said, amused.

"She's also going to hate her new curfew, and the restrictions I'm going to put on her driving. But it's all right. I'm used to being the bad guy."

"You're a professional super-villain," said Grayson, grinning.

"Of course I am," said Alexia. "I worked for the Umbrella Corporation. I also have the super-villain powers to show for my title."

"Just don't go dragging Veronica back to the house via plant-tentacle, or some shit. You don't need to scare the living shit out of her just yet."

"Damn," said Alexia, and she snapped her fingers.

"And no fire tricks, Alexia. You fucking arsonist," he said, laughing.

"You always have to shit on my fun, Grayson."


	11. Interlude 5: The Meeting

Jill parked the car outside the Green Dynamics construction site, and got out. It was raining, and the street was pretty much empty. She screwed her eyes against the rain, looking up at the half-finished skyscraper, which was being built in a style that made her think of Juan Gris cubism. Chris came around the car, muttering about the miserable weather, flicking his cigarette on the ground and grinding it under his shoe.

Their contact would meet them on the building's twentieth floor. They entered the work-site and started up several staircases, because the generator had been cut to the site, and they could not take the lift. The steps were steep like the steps in Chichen Itza, when Chris and her had gone to Cancun on vacation last year; though these steps scared Jill more, because they zigzagged up the scaffolding, and she could feel the damp wind, see the lights of the street below her through the eyelets in the mesh.

Her legs were numb and tired by the time they had gotten to the twentieth floor, and Jill sat down on a stack of boxes, waiting for their contact to show. It was cold and damp up here because of the wind and rain, and the lack of walls—only half of the walls had been put up, and the rest were covered by large squares of blue plastic tarp. The floor was new concrete. There were power-tools lying around, coils of fat rubber cables, neat piles of PVC piping, and more boxes.

Two red eyes emerged from deeper shadow, and almost gave Jill a heart-attack. Their contact said, "Sorry I'm late," and took off his balaclava, wiping the sweat from his forehead on the back of his hand.

"Fucking Christ, Steve. Don't just pop out on me like that," said Jill, and stood.

Steve Burnside grinned, showing slightly pointed teeth that made her think of a wolf. He was a tall guy with a martial artist's build, and a shag of rust-colored hair. His skin was a pale gray-green color, webbed with black varicose veins—a side effect, Jill had been told, of the crude T-Veronica strain Alexia had infected him with as a teenager. Steve had told her that Albert Wesker had stabilized the virus, but the unpleasant looks had stayed.

"How'd Ashford's lab turn out?" asked Chris, lighting up another cigarette. He offered Steve one, who took it, said thank you, and let Chris light it.

"Bitch is as crazy as she was back in 1998," said Steve conversationally, blowing smoke. He scratched his hairline, frowning. "Place is an Umbrella lab. So you pretty much know what I saw down there. Shit. A lot of shit." He paused, reached into his pocket and came up with a disc. "I made a copy of the information I peeled off her database. Gave Bingham the real one, but I did bug it, like I told you on the phone. Still don't feel too hot about handing it over to him."

"Not much of a choice," said Jill, shaking her head and taking the disc. "Bingham plays his cards close. If we're going to find his lab, we'll have to follow him to it." She clapped him on the shoulders. "You did good, Steve. It was a necessary risk."

"Being the inside-man is always a fucking risk," said Steve amiably, finishing his cigarette and putting it out. "Hopefully Rebecca can trace it. I'm pretty sure Bingham doesn't suspect I've pulled an Ada Wong yet, else I'd be dead." Pulling an Ada Wong had become a BSAA colloquialism for double-agenting or inside-work, ever since their run-in with her during the Lanshiang Incident; though Jill had never actually met her. "Hey, where's Claire?" he asked.

"She's back at the hotel, Steve. You can come by later if you want," said Jill. Then, "What else do you have for us?"

Steve brought them up to speed on everything. Alexia had been operating out of New Arklay, though had turned to independent research in recent years, and had pretty much disappeared from the black clinics. Bingham was still running his black clinic show, though the specifics had eluded Steve, because Bingham did not speak very much about his underground business. Steve did mention, however, that Bingham was calling his operation Umbrella, and said, though Steve could not be sure, that he was attempting to revive the company, and had a few backers lined up already. If Bingham made the right deals and the right friends, Steve said, Bingham could have Umbrella's sanctions lifted, and be back in business within a year. That struck a terrible chord with Jill, because she'd seen, first-hand, the sort of shit that the company did, and did not want to live through that again.

"You're serious?" snapped Chris, his eyes glinting in the dark like cold obsidian beads. "Bingham is trying to fucking revive Umbrella?"

"I told you, man. I'm not sure yet. But he mentioned Umbrella, several fucking times, and said he had people waiting to buy." Steve frowned. Then he said, "I don't like it either, Chris. I'm a product of Umbrella's bullshit. Bingham's been making friends in high places, all over the fucking world. He could finagle the politicians with a few generous campaign donations. I mean, it doesn't take much to persuade a politician, long as you assure them that their career's good until they croak."

"But if Bingham brought Umbrella back, people would be pissed," said Jill. "It just seems like a stupid move. The survivors still remember what happened, and they've got activists and movements backing them up, like Terra Save, or us, the BSAA."

"The BSAA isn't shit," said Steve, his tone hard and mean. "You're just another group of government-funded flunkies. It's only a matter of time before the politicians militarize you against innocent folks, all in the name of 'the war on bio-terrorism'. The only good thing is the BSAA's got people like you and Chris, Jill. People who care. People who've seen the shit Umbrella did. Besides, people being upset never changed anything. If the feds want to do something, they're going to do it. Look at how they rigged the elections this year, or how they keep sending troops over to the Middle East when almost everybody wants them to stop. But I digress." Steve shook his head, palms turned toward her in a show of pacifism. "Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to get all uppity."

"It's fine. We're all just a little fired up right now," said Jill.

"What about Alexia?" said Chris. "What's her risk?"

"Alexia is always a risk, just because she's fucking Alexia," said Steve. "That bitch has been cooking up some seriously messed up stuff in New Arklay. Something about a new T-Veronica variant. I didn't have time to really look at the data, because Harman came in and got me all fucked up. So I fucked him up."

"You saw Grayson?" said Jill. Part of her didn't want to know what Grayson was like now; she was content with the reports she read. She could distance herself from reports, because they did not feel as real, just words on paper, or on a computer-screen, which she imagined could belong to anyone— information passed along an intricate game of telephone. But to hear a recent account from someone who had seen him would be almost painful in its realness, because Jill would hear the corporeality in it, the definiteness of his change.

"Yeah," said Steve, a bit uncertainly. He, like Chris, knew about her past with Grayson.

"Go ahead," said Jill. "Tell me."

Steve bobbed his head affirmatively. Then he sighed, and said, "Harman's been infected with the Wesker virus, Jill. I saw his eyes. He found me in the server room, and I put him down with an anti-B.O.W round." He patted the fletchette gun on his leg. "If he's not dead, which he probably isn't, he's gonna be real ticked off next he sees me."

The reality made her feel cold and sad. "I see," she said. "Anything else?"

"He's gotta kid with Alexia," said Steve. "Bingham wanted me to kidnap her, but I just couldn't fucking do it. She's only sixteen, and doesn't seem anything like her parents. Bingham wasn't happy, but the data I'd brought shut him up pretty quick. But I have a feeling he's gonna ask me again, and he's gonna be pissed if I don't deliver."

Jill frowned. They'd been together for three years, had almost gotten married. Yet Grayson had left her for a woman he hadn't seen since 1983, and now they had the marriage and the child. It pissed Jill off because it made her feel forgotten, after she'd invested three years of her life into the relationship.

"She still at the mansion?" asked Chris, killing his third cigarette.

"I know what you're thinking, Chris, and I'm telling you stop it—right now." Steve pointed at him, an accusatory look on his face. "I highly advise you don't storm Alexia's fucking mansion. Remember her tentacles, Chris? Yeah, she's got tentacles there. And they hurt worse. Pretty sure they're poisoned. Not too mention she killed her _entire fucking research staff_ with said tentacles. I was lucky I got out."

"You're shitting me."

"I wish I was shitting you, Chris," said Steve, frowning. "But I'm not. Alexia's pretty much exactly the way she was in Antarctica, minus the creepy obsession with bugs—I think she's chilled on the bug thing. But she's got tentacles, fucking combustible blood. She spat fire in my face, man, after I smacked her around a little. Guess she had some blood in her saliva. Just hocked a fucking loogey in my eye, and it burned like a motherfucker. You go to that mansion, you're asking to die. I'm telling you, man. And Alexia's on the alert now, since I broke into her lab. She'll turn you into a wall ornament, like her research buddies."

"It just pisses me off, because she's so fucking close. And we can't do shit to her."

Jill looked at him. "Chris, we should seriously listen to Steve. Alexia's dangerous. Storming her mansion now is just suicide."

"And you're not infected like I am, Chris," said Steve. "Alexia gets you with one of her tentacles, you're dying—no two ways about it, man. That poison was fucking strong. Turned my gut necrotic for a few hours. Imagine what it would do to you or Jill, or any other BSAA asshole that decides to play Rambo?" He paused, studying Jill. Then he said, "Well, Jill might be okay. She's got immunity to the T-Virus, plus whatever Wesker did to her. But why risk it?"

"We need a plan," said Jill. "A damn fucking good one."

"You said Harman and Alexia's gotta kid, right?" said Chris, looking at Steve. "And Bingham wanted you to snatch her?"

"Yeah, he didn't really tell me what he wanted with her," said Steve, shrugging. "Just that her blood was important."

Jill got an idea, and was pretty sure that was what Chris was angling at. She said, "Kidnap the kid, and we'll kidnap her from you. That way you don't have to deliver her to Bingham—we can give him the run-around for a while, long enough for Rebecca to trace the bug to his lab—and you can lay the blame on the BSAA and keep your cover. It'll also put Alexia and Grayson into a position where they'll need to play nice with us, if they care about their kid. And considering the kid's not dead yet, I think it's safe to say they do care about her."

"That's a great idea. Problem is, kid's at the mansion—the one that I told you would be certain death if you tried going in. And I can't get in again. The train locked up, and I lost the fucking clearance pass I got off the researcher who was helping me."

"School's not out yet," Jill pointed out.

Steve grinned.


	12. Interlude 6: Doubts

Alexia leaned back against the counter and dug into her yogurt, watching Veronica glowering at the window. She'd just informed her of her new driving restrictions, and Veronica hadn't taken kindly to it.

"It's not fair," said Veronica, for the tenth or so time. She whipped around, making fists. "Is this still about that night I was at Lisa's, mom? Come on, I thought we were over that!"

"I don't need a reason to tell you what to do," said Alexia, spooning strawberry yogurt into her mouth. Then, licking her lips, she added, "I'm your mother."

"Don't give me that crap!" said Veronica, frustrated, tugging her beanie down over her ears. She paced the kitchen like a caged animal. Alexia tried not to smile too obviously; Veronica's moods were always funny to watch. "I take back what I said. I wish you'd go back down into your stupid lab."

"I can't, I told you. We had a problem in the lab. You're stuck with me, darling." Alexia smiled openly now, mostly because she was at that point her patience was beginning to wear thin with Veronica's attitude. "You and I, every day until school is out. I'll even kiss you on the cheek and yell out the car, 'Have a good day, sweetheart!' You know, because I love you so much. "

"I swear to fucking God, mom, if you do that, you're not just gonna embarrass me, you're gonna embarrass yourself."

"Oh, I'm far too old to care what a bunch of silly teenagers think about me," said Alexia honestly, still smiling. She finished her yogurt and tossed the container into the trash.

Veronica, probably realizing that this battle could not be won, cursed and left the kitchen. Alexia didn't care, and besides, she was used to being the evil parent. She sighed, rubbing the space between her eyes, feeling a headache settling in. In the end, Veronica's new arrangement was for the best, and Alexia was sure that, if Veronica knew of Bingham, she would have understood.

Alexia took two aspirins and went into the parlor, and lay on the couch. She heard footsteps, and they were too heavy to be Veronica's. Grayson said, his voice drifting through the dimness of the parlor like a ghost noise, "Hey, sleepyhead." His face hovered above hers, his eyes glinting like fire opals. "I talked to Veronica. She's not real happy about things."

"I don't really care if she's happy or not about things," said Alexia, and coaxed his head down, kissing him fully on the mouth. Vestiges of her headache still lingered, knotting behind her right eye and pulsing dully. Then, "I hate this domestic shit sometimes, Grayson. Children are pains in the asses."

"They sure are," he agreed, laughing. Grayson sat down beside her and put her legs across his lap. He patted her knee, rubbing affectionately. "To be fair, neither of us were really prepared for it. Veronica just kind of happened. Though it was a good surprise, even if you didn't really think so in the beginning."

Grayson had meant her initial reaction to her pregnancy, which had been anything but happy. Alexia had been angry about it for the first month, and had debated whether or not to kill the child. She'd wanted to kill Veronica, at one point. But as time had gone on, Alexia had decided to keep Veronica because she'd wanted to experiment on her—a child of two superhumans, who may or may not have inherited latent mutagenic abilities, like Jake Muller. Eventually, however, Alexia had come to love Veronica, and had abandoned the plan. She didn't regret the choice either, even if Veronica frequently pissed her off.

"Your pregnancy was rough on us," said Grayson, chuckling. He ran a hand along her leg, the chirp of cicadas and crickets, and the patter of light rain, filling the room. "I mean, more rough on you since you were carrying Veronica. But Jesus, everything pissed you off, Alexia. Sometimes you got downright scary. You'd be down in New Arklay, pregnant as anything, fiddling with viruses. So I guess what I'm getting at is as shitty as this domestic stuff can be sometimes, I wish you'd go easier on Veronica and not fight so much."

"I don't like fighting with Veronica," said Alexia, and meant it. She watched him. Then, even though she knew it was unfair to say, "It isn't my fault Veronica likes you better."

"Alexia, she likes you too. But you're always jumping down her throat."

"Oh, now you're siding with her? I'm your wife, Grayson."

"Alexia, that isn't fair."

She sighed. "I'm sorry," said Alexia. "You're right. I'm being ridiculous."

"Don't turn our parenting into a competition, Alexia. We're a team. We've been a team since we were kids. You taking her to and from school's a good thing—for both of you. It'll give you two a chance to bond. You don't have your laboratory to hide behind anymore."

"I never hid behind my laboratory, Grayson. It's work."

"Alexia, work has always been the thing you hid behind whenever you didn't want to deal with certain things." Alexia wanted to argue, but knew Grayson was right. Work had always been her aegis, her back-door escape from the shit in her life. Grayson had a way of presenting things she did not like talking about, but in a way that wasn't obtrusive. "Whenever things got too hot, you'd go running to your laboratory and work on your projects," he said."You want to turn out like Birkin?"

Alexia frowned, the comparison upsetting her. She didn't want Veronica to feel like Sherry, and she certainly did not want to become Birkin. "I suppose I'd never really noticed. I mean, I suppose I'd never really noticed how it might affect Veronica." Alexia shook her head. Then she said, because she knew she could be honest with him, "I'm not cut out for this mother thing, Grayson. I'm terrible at it. I feel less and less like a scientist every day, and more like another tired, miserable mother, like the ones you see in the stores wearing yoga pants and college pull-overs, with three kids hanging onto their arms, crying and shouting."

"To be fair, we're well past that sort of shit," he said, and laughed. "Veronica didn't misbehave much, far as I can remember. Pretty quiet kid. Though when she threw her tantrums, shit, _look out_. Besides, you're doing good, Alexia. I mean, Veronica's still alive and healthy, so you're doing real good."

"Sometimes I simply wonder if this will be the culmination of my life: motherhood. I'm a fucking scientist, Grayson. A fucking super-villain, by all definitions—yet here I am, griping about kids and arguing with my bloody teenage daughter. This isn't the life I'd envisioned I would have, when I'd stepped out of the fucking cryotank."

"Of course it isn't the life you thought you'd have. It's too normal," said Grayson, grinning like an idiot. "Plenty of time left for turning the globe into your personal anthill, or whatever you were planning to do in Antarctica. You're only in your forties, and you're probably going to be around for a long time if Bingham's anyone to judge by. So knock it off. I hate seeing you suffering an existential crisis. It's a sad sight."

Alexia chucked a throw-pillow at him, and it hit Grayson squarely in the face. "Shut up," she said, smiling.

"You'll be back to being a mad scientist in no time, Dr. Strangelove." Grayson threw the pillow back at her, and it hit her chest with impressive force. Alexia laughed. "Just have to wait until we get your research back, and you recruit a new staff," he added. "You know, since you went and killed everyone."

"Speaking of my research, I spoke with a contact earlier," said Alexia, sitting up. "Chris and Claire Redfield are in town, and they're after Bingham. I think I'm going to pay them a visit. They might know where to find Bingham and his Balaclava Man."

Grayson's expression became strange. "Chris is here? He's BSAA."

"Jill Valentine is with him," said Alexia, staring at him. "I know that's what you were getting at, Grayson."

"Alexia, don't look at me like that. It's been twenty years since we were together."

"I trust you, Grayson. Because you know I'll rip your balls off if you try anything."

"Yeah, I know. And I like my balls where they are, thanks. Besides, I'm not interested in Jill. If you'll recall, I told you the reason we broke up was because of you, Alexia."

"I remember."

"Good. That said, you're the better woman anyway. Intelligent, tall, blonde." Grayson grinned, patting her leg. "Long supermodel legs. I can go on."

Alexia grinned, then lay back down. "Go on," she said. "I like it when you feed my ego."


	13. Part One - Small World

Veronica attended school at a place called Hobbs Preparatory, a private secular school. Alexia had insisted on the place, though Grayson did not like it because of its blatant snobbery. The kids here were the kids of the elite—children of doctors, lawyers, prominent scientists, and celebrities—and Grayson figured he hated it because he'd been raised blue-collar, a butler's kid, and his working-class prejudices had stuck, even though Alexia and him were probably richer than most of the school's clientele.

The school itself was a historical landmark, an enormous gray stone building that had been built in the early nineteenth century, and had once been the mansion of some dead steel tycoon. It occupied a manicured piece of land that was more botanical park than anything, hedged in by a large wrought-iron fence. The kids here wore aloof better-than-you looks, each dressed in sharp-looking uniforms: black sweaters and sweater-vests, pleated skirts and dress pants, maroon jackets embroidered with the school's emblem.

Grayson hated how everyone looked so alike. There was a tangible void of creativity here, a certain mechanicalness that depressed him as someone who appreciated odd-ball artists, and the rest of society's slough. He had liked the vibe at Columbia; everyone there had been pretty weird, in their individual bohemian ways, but Hobbs was the sort of place people like Alexia appreciated, because Alexia wasn't creative or bohemian in the least.

"This is so embarrassing," griped Veronica, in the backseat. She covered her face and shook her head.

"Hey, blame yourself, kiddo," said Grayson, completely basking in Veronica's humiliation. "You got mouthy with your mom. So now you get to have _both_ your parents take you to school." It was probably the worst thing they could do to a sixteen-year-old girl, short of torturing her.

Alexia smirked approvingly in his periphery. She had always liked his quirky disciplinary methods, because she was too boring to think them up on her own. Alexia was logician through-and-through, and lacked creativity in mostly everything beyond the bedroom, which she took a particular delight in because she was, at her core, completely dominating, and more than a little bit of a sadist, and the bedroom was a space she could be both of those things.

As they came up on the school, Grayson noticed an ambulance parked outside; a kid was being loaded into it by two stocky paramedics. They parked by the curb, and someone ran up to Veronica's window and rapped on it.

The girl was tall and rail-thin, dressed in the school uniform; though she had taken some liberties with her clothes, like Veronica did, and had rolled up her jacket-sleeves, and let her shirttail hang out. She wore glasses, and her hair was sleek and strawberry blonde, cut short around her jaw. Veronica slid the window down and said, "Lisa? What the hell?"

"Marcedius just got sick," said Lisa, and Grayson couldn't tell if she was excited, or worried. "He spewed everywhere and collapsed on the steps a few minutes ago, and tried biting one of the paramedics." She paused, finally realizing that Alexia and him were there. She smiled clumsily. "Oh. Mr. and Mrs. Harman. Uh. Sorry. Um. I, uh, like your sunglasses, Mr. Harman. They're cool."

"Thanks, Lisa. My wife bought them for me," said Grayson, beaming. "Veronica's told us a lot about you. Nice to finally meet you. She said you think my wife's hot."

Alexia started to laugh.

Lisa turned bright red. Then, stammering out, "Oh, shi—crap. I mean. Crap. I'm really sorry, Mr. Harman." She scowled at Veronica, in a way that suggested she planned to beat the shit out of her later.

"Hey, it's fine. It's a compliment, considering Alexia's old as shit."

Alexia smacked him hard in the side and said, hotly, "You're older than I am, Grayson. Shut up." She looked at Lisa now, suddenly all business. "You mentioned this Marcedius tried biting one of the paramedics?"

"Yeah, almost took a chunk out of his arm," said Lisa, the redness dissipating from her cheeks. Though she still had a certain awkwardness about her. "The news keeps talking about Zika. You're a virologist, right, Mrs. Harman? Should we be worried about this stupid virus? Dad's a doctor and says it's nothing I need to worry about, but I dunno. A lot of kids are getting real sick. Did Veronica tell you about Danny Bertolucci? Jamie?"

"Veronica did mention them, yes," said Alexia, and nodded, gripping the wheel until her knuckles had turned somewhat white. Though her expression was inhumanly calm, robotic. She said, though Grayson knew she was lying, "It's nothing to worry about, Lisa." She looked at him. "Even so, I think it would be wise to bring Veronica back home, dear. Don't you think?"

"Can't. I have a big test today," said Veronica, piling out of the car. The morning bell rang, and the ambulance pulled away from the school, vanishing in a whirl of lights and sirens. "Summer vacation might be right around the corner, but my teachers are pretty serious about teaching. I'll be fine." She slammed the door shut. "Besides, I'm still pissed off at both of you."

Grayson watched Lisa and Veronica walk away. He heard Lisa say, "I can't believe you told your mom I thought she was hot! I'm so fucking embarrassed. God. She's not offended, right?"

Veronica said, just before she was out of earshot, "My mom doesn't give a shit that you like chicks. Besides, I didn't say shit about it. My mom heard you. Not my fault you have a loud mouth, Lisa."

Lisa was loud, and did not even seem aware of her loudness. Grayson heard her say, right before Veronica and her were through the doors, "She didn't hear me say her accent was sexy, right?"

"I did now," said Alexia, smiling.

"To be fair, your accent is pretty sexy, Alexia. You've got that posh thing going on, like a Bond girl."

"Grayson, you've been listening to my accent for over forty years. How do you even _notice_ it anymore?"

"You sound like a fucking BBC newscaster." Alexia gave him an exhausted look, and Grayson grinned.

They pulled away from the school, and crawled in Ashbury morning traffic. Grayson watched the rain beading on the wind-shield, listening to it patter on the roof of the car. They had not talked much since they'd left Hobbs. He wasn't even sure where they were going. He looked at the car next to theirs, watched a middle-aged woman sipping an eight-dollar coffee in one hand, taking large bites of a drive-through breakfast sandwich in the other.

Alexia finally spoke, over the whooshing of the wipers, her eyes focused on the road, watching for the slightest movement of traffic. "I think we're on the precipice of an infection, Grayson. I feel it in my gut."

"When Lisa said a kid tried biting a paramedic, I figured." Grayson stared at her. Then, "Where are we going anyway?"

"Before shit hits the fan? The Redfields," she said, conversationally. "My contact said they were at the Raccoon Street Hotel. We're going to have a little chit-chat."

"What makes you think they're even there right now?"

"If they aren't, then we'll wait," said Alexia, and coaxed the car forward, once traffic started to move.

Truthfully, Grayson looked forward to seeing the looks on their faces when they saw Alexia and him, in the flesh, after nearly two decades. He wondered if Jill would be there, and part of him hoped she would be, because he hadn't seen her in so long. It was mostly curiosity; he'd left the relationship cold turkey, and had not seen or spoken to Jill since 1998. Wanted to see how she'd turned out since she had joined S.T.A.R.S, and now the BSAA. When Grayson had known her, Jill had just been another army grunt.

As if she'd read his mind, Alexia said, "If Jill is there, I trust you'll have no problems disposing of her, should she decide to get uppity."

"No problems at all," he said.

The Raccoon Street Hotel was a nice place. Grayson guessed the BSAA had gotten them the room there. It catered to an elite clientele of corporate suits and rich tourists. The lobby was a wide marble room, lit by an enormous crystal chandelier. The staff moved efficiently and silently. Right now, the clientele seemed exclusively comprised of old white guys in expensive tailored suits, who sat around the lobby rifling through their briefcases, or talking business on their phones. One of the suits gave Alexia a sleazy look, and Grayson let his sunglasses slip just a little. The man looked like he'd just seen Lucifer in the flesh, hurrying away.

It wasn't difficult to get up to the rooms. The front-desk clerk was busy talking down an angry geriatric, so they were nicely distracted. Grayson wasn't sure what the guy was mad about, but heard something about a service fee, and it being robbery, a fucking joke. They stepped into the elevator and went up to the twenty-fourth floor, where the Redfields were staying. The elevator was a glass elevator; he could see the rainy world of Raccoon Street, and the city skyline, beyond the tube.

"How'd your contact know they were here anyway?" he asked, because the question had been nagging him.

"I have eyes and ears everywhere, Grayson," said Alexia, in usual ambiguous fashion. "You forget how well-connected I am."

The elevator came to a smooth stop, and they got out, walking down the hall, where a maid was pushing her cart between rooms. She did not even look at them; they were well-dressed, so they blended right in with the usual crowd. They were looking for room 703, and found it, near the end of the hall.

It had one of those magnetic locks that required a key-card to open. Grayson could have easily ripped the door from its hinges, but decided to knock instead.

There was movement beyond the door. It opened, and Claire appeared, toweling her head. She said, "Chris? You're back already—" Her eyes went huge—"Holy shit."

"Hello, Claire," said Alexia, pushing Claire inside the room. Grayson followed, shutting and locking the door behind them. "It's so nice to see you again. Where's your brother?"

Claire's face went the color of bleached bone. She wore a sleeveless shirt and loose-fitting sweatpants. Her hair was damp, hanging in wet curls around her face. "I knew you were alive, you fucking bitch," she said. "But just showing up here like this?"

Alexia smiled meaninglessly. "I was in the neighborhood, and thought it would be nice to catch up."

"Yeah. How's things without Alfred?" said Claire, reaching for something, a gun.

"I'd suggest you watch your mouth about my brother," warned Alexia, swatting the gun from Claire's hand, it clattering somewhere in the room. She punched Claire so hard, Claire whipped sideways and smacked her head on the coffee-table, shattering the glass. "I want to know about Bingham's little lap-dog," Alexia continued smoothly. "The Man in the Balaclava."

Claire moaned in pain, the right side of her face bleeding. She had cut herself pretty badly on a piece of glass. But she managed to get up, and said, "Go fuck yourself, Alexia."


	14. Interlude 7: Pompeii

Rebecca had run Veronica Harman's name, and discovered that she went to school at a place called Hobbs Preparatory. It was the sort of school Jill's parents could have never afforded; there were brand new Bentleys, Jaguars, and Rolls-Royces parked in the student lot, and the grounds reminded her of the Missouri Botanical Garden Chris and her had visited a few years ago, when they'd gone to see his uncle.

"You sure this is the right school?" asked Jill. She felt envious, as a by-product of the American public school system. Even the school building was beautiful, a white marble mansion built in a style called French Renaissance, which she only knew because art had been a hobby of hers, and she'd learned a few things about it, even if she wasn't much of an artist herself. "Fucking Christ, it's like something out of a Victorian novel. And did you see those fucking cars? Kids are driving those, Chris. _Kids_."

"It's the right place," said Steve, who sat behind her. "You know this place costs Ashford over thirty fucking grand per year, Jill? Can you _believe_ that shit? Thirty fucking grand to send a kid to some hoity-toity school for rich pricks."

"You both act like you're surprised," said Chris beside her, looking out the rain-stained window. He thoughtfully chewed the inside of his cheek, and parked the car. "You think Ashford would send her kid to some shitty public school? Yeah right. Bet you the kid's gotta trust fund and everything, a guaranteed ride to the Ivy League."

"Wish I could've been so lucky," said Jill, sighing. "Dad was a small business owner, and so was mom, but they never made the kind of money to send me to a place like this. I did well in school though, mostly because my mom was a _kyoiku mama—_ to a deadly point. Jesus, there were times I really wanted to kill her."

"What the fuck is a kyowhatever mama?" asked Steve, giving her a weird look.

"It's pretty much a Japanese stereotype of a woman who drives her kid to do well in school, to the point the kid wants to pretty much off themselves. Mom was Nisei—her parents were from Kanazawa—and dad was French, who immigrated here during the Fifties."

"Oh," said Steve. "Never knew you were half-Japanese."

"I don't really look it," said Jill, and shrugged, because she'd never really cared about her parentage, even though she was close with her Japanese relatives. She looked out the window, noticing there wasn't much activity around Hobbs. She didn't like that. "How are we going to know which kid is Ashford's?" asked Jill, glancing back at Steve. "Did you ever see her face?"

"Yeah. Bingham had a photo. Also saw her in a picture on Alexia's desk, down in New Arklay," he said. "She looks just like Alexia, but brunette instead of fucking Aryan blonde. You can't miss her, I promise."

Jill opened the door, the _ping-ping-ping_ of the door alarm ringing in her ears. She got out, thunking it shut behind her. The school was too calm, a calmness endemic to tombs, or the eye of a hurricane. She immediately felt it in her gut, the wrongness of it all, as if her stomach had bottomed out and dropped its contents into her abdominal cavity.

Then it happened: a loud, sudden burst of noise, and people—kids, teachers, custodians—clambered from the doors, and over one another, pure animal fear on their faces. Jill wasn't sure if there had been a shooting, and they were running from the shooter, or if something else had happened.

She saw it then, people tailing the crowd, their eyes like pearls set in dead rotting skulls. Students were high-tailing it to the parking lot, but a few did not make it, dragged to the asphalt by their undead pursuers and ripped open like bags, their pink-red contents spilling onto the ground.

Jill heard a girl shout _fuck off_ , and saw Veronica, who struck a boy's head with a rock. The boy folded and clawed her jacket, mewling. Veronica struck him again, harder. Then the boy stopped moving, and Veronica tossed the bloody stone aside. Another girl with her: strawberry blonde, tall and very thin, who looked scared and sick. Veronica did not look scared and sick at all.

A few of the students who'd been killed had re-animated as zombies. Jill shot them in the head, then shouted, "I'm with the BSAA! Over here!" and waved Veronica and her friend over.

Veronica bolted toward her, though struggled to get her friend moving, who was crying and asking what was happening and refusing to move. Jill heard Veronica say, "Lisa! Get a fucking grip on yourself. The BSAA's _right there_!"

A zombie came up behind Veronica, an older man with glasses in a torn bloody suit, and Jill shot him before he could take a chunk out of Veronica's neck. "I got you covered!" she said. "Hurry up!"

Her friend Lisa finally started moving, half-stumbling across the school yard, several zombies on their heels. Jill managed to kill a few of the undead, but there were too many; the zone had become hot. The girls were halfway to the SUV. Jill thrust her hand out and said, "Grab it," and Veronica dove and got her around the wrist. Jill hopped back onto the running board of the SUV, pulling Veronica and her friend, who'd been hanging onto Veronica's arm until her knuckles had turned white, toward the car.

Chris hung halfway out of the driver-side window, elbows on the roof, picking off the zombies Jill had missed. Steve fired from the backseat window. Though Steve was infected, he didn't possess the superhuman strength of Grayson or Albert because of the crudeness of his T-Veronica strain, and relied less on his physical abilities, and more on his arsenal.

Veronica was inside the car. But her friend Lisa didn't make it, dragged from the car by the infected. She screamed so loudly it made Jill's ears hurt, and then the scream tapered to a wet gurgle as the undead opened Lisa's belly, splattering the running board with the gory mess.

"Lisa!" Veronica screamed, and she tried to push past Jill, but Jill shoved her back inside the SUV.

They peeled out of the school yard. Beyond Hobbs, Ashbury was already on fire. The infected roamed the streets; cars were overturned, smoldering in the rain; looters and criminals, who had taken advantage of the chaos, were breaking into shops and houses, murdering survivors with whatever they could find or already had—pipes, guns, two-by-fours, tire irons, knives—and stealing money or other valuables off the bodies, or leaving the bodies wherever they had fallen. She watched two wild-eyed teenagers smashing in an older man's head with a cinder-block, and then they got into a car and were gone.

Veronica sat between Steve and her. She looked hollow, a ghost of herself. "I can't believe it," she said plaintively. "They killed Lisa. The infected. Ripped her open and—fuck." Veronica looked as if she wanted to cry but could not bring herself to do it, either because Alexia had tempered it out of her, or because she did not want to cry in front of anyone.

"You know what those things are?" asked Jill.

She nodded, her expression empty and sad. "Yeah. I do." Veronica looked at Jill. "You're that woman from the television, my dad's ex." Then she looked at Steve, who'd been quiet. He still had a bad grudge against Alexia, and anything even tangentially related to her, and it probably didn't help that Veronica looked just like her. "You're infected," she said.

"Yeah," said Steve, without looking at her. "I guess you don't know who I am."

"No, I don't."

Chris looked at Veronica in the mirror, his blue eyes taking on a hard quality. "How do you know about the infected?" he asked. "Your mom tell you? That's fucked up, getting a kid involved in this shit. But I guess I wouldn't expect much less from your mom. Family biz, and all that fucking shit."

"You know who my mom is?" asked Veronica, staring at him.

"She's been on the BSAA radar for a while," said Jill. Their plan hadn't gone quite as planned, but they still had Veronica with them, and that was good. Steve could maintain his cover with Bingham, maybe probe more details before Rebecca traced the lab's location. She supposed that didn't matter now; they couldn't get out of Ashbury. The military would be here soon, and they would establish a quarantine around the city—nothing would get in, and nothing would get out. Jill said, "Your mom's maiden name was Ashford. Alexia Ashford. Former Umbrella scientist, considered one of the Big Six: William Birkin, Alexia Ashford, Albert Wesker, James Marcus, Edward Ashford, and Oswell Spencer. She's the only one left."

"Guess there's no point beating around shit then," said Veronica. There was a cut on her cheek, still wet with blood, and her school jacket was torn in some places. "You're here to pick my mom up, aren't you?"

"The BSAA hasn't officially come here yet," said Chris. "We're basically alone, until reinforcements show up—assuming the military even lets them in. But yeah, we're here for your mom, and you're our leverage, kid."

"You fucking assholes," said Veronica, through her teeth. "You're kidnapping me? That's illegal. Wait until my parents find you. Dad'll rip your spine out and beat you with it, and mom's pretty fucked up, so who knows what sort of shit she'll come up with."

"It's a necessary risk we have to take," said Jill honestly. "I don't like it much either, Veronica."

"Fuck off. You're my dad's former piece of ass. You're not shit."

Jill clenched her teeth, and for a moment, had really wanted to smack Veronica. But several harrowing experiences had taught her patience, and Jill understood that Veronica was scared, and this was how she coped with the fear. Besides, beating on their leverage would only piss off Alexia and Grayson more, and they'd be even less inclined to help them. "There's a train that goes to New Arklay," she said. "We need to get on it."

"Only people who get on that train are the scientists," said Veronica. Then she gestured around her. "Given we're in the middle of a fucking zombie apocalypse, they're probably all dead. Besides, I don't even know where the train is. I've never been on it. Only time I went down into New Arklay was when mom was with me. She never let me wander around the place."

"Which is why we need you," said Jill. "BSAA doesn't even know we're in Ashbury. We were following up on a lead. If we get your mom to cooperate with us, maybe we can cut a deal with her."

Veronica laughed. "Mom? Working for the government? Mom doesn't like working for people, much less the feds." Then her expression became sullen again, and she stayed quiet.

Steve said, "Chris, pull over here." Chris pulled over. It was a relatively clear residential street. There were a few slow-moving undead; but they were nothing Steve couldn't handle, Jill was sure. "I need to go meet our mutual buddy, and let him know we've got some meddlers. Make sure Claire's okay. Please." Meddlers was double-speak for BSAA; Steve needed to contact Bingham, and let him know the BSAA had gotten their hands on Veronica.

"My sister can handle herself. But yeah, don't worry. We're going to go get her."

Steve smiled, got out of the car, and vanished into a narrow alley between brownstones.

Jill looked at Veronica. "Can you get us into contact with your mom?"

"I got her number memorized. But my phone's back at Hobbs, and I'm not fucking going back there after—shit, Lisa. I'm sorry."

Slipping her arm around Veronica, Jill said, "It's fine," and let Veronica cry.


	15. Part One - Rendezvous

Alexia had been banging Claire around for the last half-hour. There were cuts on Claire's hands and arms from shattered glass, and her lip had been split, where Alexia had caught it with the diamond on her wedding ring. Grayson was entertained because he rarely ever saw Alexia exert this kind of raw gladiatorial energy; her murdering was normally quick and clean, because Alexia did not like to waste her precious time. But Alexia hated Claire. She knocked Claire into things and slammed her against walls; but there was a distinct precision in the way Alexia handled her, as if she was trying her best not to actually kill Claire. Claire had been stubbornly tight-lipped about the BSAA and the Balaclava Man, and Alexia needed her to talk.

Claire had not been entirely helpless, however; for someone who possessed no viral talents, she had gotten a few good punches in on Alexia. Claire fought with professionalism and tight form, probably learned from her brother, or maybe Jill. But Alexia, who had never been formally trained in any fighting, fought clumsily and defensively when she was receiving, and aggressively and wildly when she was giving.

Alexia slugged Claire in the head, and Claire hit the floor on her side. She said, wiping the blood from her mouth, "Tell me about the Balaclava Man, Redfield." The blood on Alexia's fingertips ignited into a white flame, dancing there, butane reek filling the room. "Or I'll melt your pretty face away."

Claire sat up, her face slick with sweat. Her eyes went huge when she saw the fire. "Shit," she said, under her breath.

"Just do what Alexia says, Claire," said Grayson. "Make things easy. Tell us, and I won't let Alexia kill you. But keep fucking with us, then I won't lift a finger to stop her." He did not feel any particular animosity toward Claire, despite the fact she had killed him. If anything, Grayson owed her, because Claire had made his current existence possible. "Trust me," he added, falling into the mechanical routine. It was getting easier now, as if he had somehow channeled Albert Wesker's soul and became its new flesh. "You don't want that. That fire will disfigure you for life—and that's if you're lucky. We're talking skin grafts, from samples taken off your ass. You'll wind up looking like Leatherface."

Claire was quiet, probably considering her options and realizing she did not actually have any. She was outnumbered: two tyrants to one normal girl, and one of those tyrants had a white-hot flame held to her face, like the jet of a blow-torch.

"You might want to listen to my husband," said Alexia coolly. She looked at the fire, smiling emptily. "Remember? In Antarctica. How I burned the entire mansion down with a flame like this. Except this flame is several times hotter, Redfield. If I decide to immolate you, there won't be anything left of your body for the BSAA to identify. Now talk."

Claire tried to move. Alexia burned Claire's leg. Claire howled in raw animal pain, the smell of cooked flesh supplanting the fire's butane stink. The burn had not been particularly severe like a third degree—just enough to drive Alexia's point home—but it did look painful. "Fucking stop!" she cried. "I don't know anything about the Balaclava Guy. I just know he's working for Bingham, Alexia."

"I already knew those things." Alexia's gaze went psychopath cold, a focused feline stare. "Better tell me something I don't know, Redfield, or your day is going to get even worse."

"You crazy fucking bitch. Goddamn, why didn't you fucking die back in Antarctica? We shot you!"

"You fought a bio-form, a clone comprised of genetic slough," said Alexia. "Effectively, you blew up a junk sculpture, Redfield. Now I'm losing my patience. Tell me something useful, and I'll go away."

Claire eyes were rimmed with pain. "Why would you just walk away?" she asked. "After all this bullshit?"

"Perhaps I like having a rival?" Alexia gave another hollow smile, as if she was imitating a picture she had seen in a manual. "Albert had one in Chris. Batman has one in the Joker. Superman has Lex Luthor. It validates my status as a villain."

"Seriously, you might want to tell her. Alexia _will_ kill you, Claire." Grayson knew Alexia's temper, and though its fuse wasn't particularly short, it also wasn't particularly long.

"Look," said Claire. "I don't know anything about Balaclava Guy. I—"

Alexia's phone went off. She said, "Grayson, make sure Redfield doesn't go anywhere," and answered it, strolling off toward the window.

"Sure, no problem," said Grayson, crouching on his toes in front of Claire. "I really suggest you cooperate and be good, Claire. I get mad pretty easily. I mean, I'm usually laid back, but sometimes I just get _fired up_ , and can't help but beat whatever pissed me off into a bloody paste." He took off his sunglasses, grinning wider. He said, conversationally, "It's like how bulls go crazy when they see red. Get what I mean?"

"You're a fucking lunatic, Harman. Your eyes. Jesus."

"Yeah, I get that a lot."

Alexia froze, silhouetted against the panoramic window, and the rainy sky beyond. She looked upset; then she looked furious. He heard her say, "If you touch one fucking hair on her head, Valentine, I will put you down like a dog."

"Uh-oh," said Grayson, mostly to himself.

Once Alexia had finished her conversation with Jill—he assumed it was Jill, because who else would Alexia call Valentine, and threaten like that—she came back over. "We're leaving. Now," she said. "Chris Redfield and Jill Valentine have our daughter."

"Fuck," said Grayson. Then looked at Claire, said, "We're gone," and knocked her out with an expert punch. He followed Alexia out of the room. "How the fuck did they get Veronica?" he asked, putting on his sunglasses.

The hallway was deserted, the maid's plastic pushcart abandoned in the middle of the hall, in front of a door that was slightly cracked. He heard odd movement inside the room, like someone slowly shuffling around. Alexia heard it too, and stopped. She said, "I don't like the sound of that."

The door burst open. The maid came running out, her skin rotting away, eyes dead-foggy, lesions glittering like wet rubies in the light. She snarled at them, gore dripping from her teeth. Grayson swung so hard, he shattered part of the woman's skull, and she dropped like a sack of rocks, blood, which had already congealed, oozing from her head.

"Well that's just fucking great," said Alexia, staring at the dead woman. "Ashbury's been infected."

He shook the bits of brain and bone from his hand. Then, "What did Jill say to you specifically, Alexia?"

"They want me to help them board the train to New Arklay," she said, peeking into the room the maid had run out of. He looked too, checking for infected. There was a dead, partially eaten man on the ground; most of his face was gone, and his arms had a few chunks teeth-torn from them. But Grayson did not see or hear anyone else in there.

"What did you tell them?" he asked.

"I wanted to see Veronica for myself before I decided on anything," said Alexia. "Jill agreed. We're going to meet them at a bar called O'Malley's."

"Why?"

Alexia shrugged. Then she said, "Perhaps it's simply a convenient location? The way Jill talked, it's a rather conspicuous place."

"Do you know if Veronica's okay, Alexia? Did they let you talk to her?"

"They did," she said. "Jill's too soft."

"I think we're being set up maybe. Why would they agree to meet us? We could easily beat their asses." Then Grayson remembered the anti-B.O.W gun, and thought that, maybe, the BSAA had somehow gotten their hands on that tech too. There had to be a place, somewhere on the black market, where they could have acquired it. One of Bingham's people could have easily misplaced the goods and sold it on the side for a profit—and tech like that, given the nature of the organization, would be invaluable to the BSAA.

"We probably are. But what choice do we have, Grayson?" Alexia actually looked sad then, sadder than he had ever seen her look before, and said, "Veronica's our little girl. If something happened to her, I don't know what I'd do, Grayson."

Grayson squeezed her shoulder and said, "Veronica's tough. She was raised by us." He smiled, and so did Alexia. They had gotten better, over the years, at the whole comfort game. He reasoned it was special intuition which came from marriage, and a lifetime of close friendship. "She knows about the infected, knows how they work. And Jill's not the kind of person to kill a kid. Chris? Well, Chris might. I hear he's become pretty jaded of late, especially after losing his partner Piers. Guy's got fucking PTSD, I shit you not."

"Wonderful. My daughter's with a former soldier who's suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. That makes me feel a _whole_ lot better, Grayson." Alexia gave him a pointed looked. Then, "You still royally suck at consolation."

"I never said I was good at it," he said.

"You're sure Jill won't hurt her?" asked Alexia. "Jill is your ex-lover, Grayson. You're certain she won't kill Veronica in a fit of jealousy, or something? You know, 'if I couldn't have it, neither can she'."

"No, Alexia," said Grayson, and shook his head. "It's been over twenty years. We've gone our separate ways. Besides, Jill's always been pretty good with kids. Sherry liked her. Jill's got a decent heart, which is one of several reasons I couldn't deal with the relationship. Never been much for nice characters."

"Perhaps we should wait here? They're bound to come back for Claire."

"I know how Jill operates," said Grayson, stepping into the elevator. It was thankfully clear of undead, or the gory messes they tended to leave. They rode it down. "She plans for mostly everything. She already considered the fact you might wait here and try to spring a trap. So only Chris comes, and he's probably armed with something nasty. If the BSAA's got something to do with Balaclava Guy, or maybe Bingham, they might have anti-B.O.W tech. And personally, I rather not wait around until he shows up, because that's time wasted. I want my daughter, Alexia. We're going to O'Malley's."


	16. Interlude 8: Friendly Interrogation

Jill put the phone back on its cradle. Alexia was every bit as acerbic as she'd imagined. She was like Alexis Carrington, but without the bitchy appeal. She couldn't understand why Grayson had tethered himself to a woman like her, but then, she didn't understand much about Grayson anymore.

Chris had gone to get Claire. Right now, they were inside someone's home, but the family who'd lived here had either fled the city already, or had died; though Veronica and her hadn't found any bodies. The television had still been on when they'd entered to check for survivors, but Jill had turned it off before the noise attracted the infected, who were milling around the house, and out in the street, like stupid cattle. Jill locked the front door; she didn't bother with a barricade, because she didn't plan to stay too long.

Veronica came downstairs, clutching a metal baseball bat. "Found this in the kid's room," she said, rubbing at her eyes with the point of her first knuckle. "Jesus, I'm exhausted. What time is it?"

Jill glanced at the digital clock on a nearby table. "It's ten o'clock." It was already dark outside, and raining harder, which made traveling, even with her experience, dangerous.

"We're still going to that bar, right? I wanna see my mom."

"You think you're up for it?" Jill had done her best not to treat Veronica like a prisoner, because she still didn't like this kidnapping routine; it went against her character. But it had been their only choice. Bingham wanted Veronica for something big, and the BSAA couldn't let that happen because her blood, and the blood of anyone who might die as a consequence, would be on their hands. And Alexia would have never helped them, because it wasn't in her character to help anyone, unless she had the right incentives. "It's not a walk in the park, Veronica," she added. "We could bunk down here, call your parents and tell them there's been a change."

Veronica looked at the gun on her leg and said, "You have that. Should be fine." It was Steve's anti-B.O.W fletchette, which he'd given to her, just in case things went south with Grayson and Alexia.

"You know what this is?" asked Jill, surprised. She wondered how much Veronica actually knew about Umbrella, or the things related to Umbrella.

"It's a gun." Veronica put the bat across her shoulders. Then she said, "Jesus, how many fucking guns do you have?"

"Two. My standard-issue—" Jill patted the gun on her shoulder—"and the other one."

"You got enough ammo?"

"If I'm conservative." She'd only brought a few clips with her, because Jill hadn't planned on finding herself in a second Raccoon City. "You ready to make the trip to O'Malley's?"

"I can handle zombies," said Veronica. She took something out of her school jacket and showed her it. It was a smartphone. "Found this in the bathroom. Guess they left in a pretty big hurry, because they were still signed into their social media feed."

"What are you going to do with that?" asked Jill.

"Check it out." Veronica grinned and cranked the ringtone to the loudest possible volume, then ran to the back door and lobbed it, as hard as she could, into the crowd of undead. They started stumbling toward the noise, clearing a path from the house.

They ran. Jill didn't worry about the slow and stupid zombies. If she walked briskly, she could easily outpace them. Jill heard wet dying noises in the dark, saw a few infected digging into the meat of a homeless man, shoveling chunks of him into their bloody mouths.

"Saw a few zombies eat a feeder once," remarked Veronica, glancing at the undead huddled around the bloody ruin of the man's corpse, squatting on their haunches. "Feeders have a shit job. They give the zombies meat, keep them alive for testing. Well, I use the term 'alive' pretty loosely, but you know what I mean. Keep them viable."

"That didn't scare you?" asked Jill, because she couldn't imagine a sixteen-year-old not becoming traumatized by that sort of thing. But she considered the fact that Veronica was Alexia Ashford's child, and if her dossier was accurate, Alexia was an acute sociopath who didn't care at all about other people. She was definitely the kind of woman who would expose her child to some terrible shit, and not feel the least bit guilty about it.

"No. It was how I grew up," said Veronica, shrugging. "Sure, at first it was scary. But my mom, no matter how much she pisses me off, she's always been a strong chick. Around her, you'd think nothing could go wrong because she carries herself with such fucking confidence. I've never seen my mom second-guess herself, Jill. She'd tell you everything was fine, and you believed her without a single doubt."

"What about your dad? He didn't say anything about your mother exposing you to this stuff?" Jill wondered why Grayson had never told Alexia it was a bad idea to introduce Veronica to the world of weaponized biologicals. He'd been a good guy once, or Jill had been sure he'd been a good guy, who had wanted the best for kids like Sherry Birkin and Haley Dunn. Something had changed inside him when Alexia came back into his life—or perhaps it had been the Wesker virus. Or maybe Grayson had always been like that, but Jill had never wanted to notice that badness in him.

"Dad? Nope. He supports my mom in pretty much everything," said Veronica.

Jill didn't say anything right away. She scanned the area for infected, and only saw a few of the dumb, sluggish variant, so she wasn't worried. "Are they happy?" she asked, even though Jill already knew the answer.

"You gonna be upset if I tell you yes?" said Veronica, staring in her periphery. "Because I've had enough crying to last me a lifetime."

"No, I'm not upset. Curious, I guess. Your dad and I were together for three years. Haven't spoken to him since, so it's like catching up with an old friend—but through a go-between." Jill smiled.

"Did you guys really break up because of my mom?"

"Yeah," said Jill honestly. "Your dad still loved her. The entire relationship, I was pretty much competing with a memory. It got exhausting after a while. That sort of thing whittles you down mentally, Veronica."

"Do you still love him?"

It was the question Jill had been dreading Veronica would ask, because it was a complicated thing, and she had no definitive answer for it. After deliberating for a few moments, she finally said, "I'm not sure." It was the best reply Jill could devise; the answer, in its ambiguousness, honestly summed up her feelings. She wasn't sure if she precisely loved Grayson, because love was too strong of a word. She loved Chris. But Jill definitely still felt something for Grayson—maybe a longing for closure.

"Sounds like you're just skirting the question," said Veronica, unconvinced. She shrugged, a few drops of rain dripping from her bangs and sliding down her face. Thunder rumbled in the clouds, receding toward the horizon. Then she said, "Whatever the Redfields told you about mom, it's not all true. She's a good mom, even if she comes off the way she does, and likes to jump down my throat about stupid shit." She frowned. "Man, I miss her. I miss her, and I miss her stupid punishments and her stupid British accent, and her stupid bad attitude. Being kidnapped really makes you hurt for a person you formerly couldn't stand, Jill."

"I'm not kidnapping you. Not exactly. You're needed leverage, Veronica. You're going to help people. If we come across survivors, they can get on the train too, and get out of this city." Jill heard the military choppers in the distance, and could see them dropping the quarantine walls, like a big orange rubber fence around the city.

"Guess you've gotta point." Veronica stared at the ground as they walked. Then, "I used to think the zombies were pretty cool, you know? I mean, mom brought dead people back to life. But it's different when they're not behind the observation glass, and you start seeing that they were people once. In the lab, they were assigned specimen numbers, not names. Out here, they were Johns, Clarks, Jennifers, Christinas, still wearing the scraps of their lives, smartphones in their pockets with home-screen pictures of Vegas parties and family get-togethers..."

"Puts things into perspective, doesn't it?" said Jill.

"Yeah. You start realizing people out here once had lives as complicated as ours, whole family histories, places in the community. It's sobering."

"You don't have to go the way of your mom, you know, Veronica," said Jill. "There are other options."

"It's more complicated than that. My mom's family has a long history, and mom expects that history to continue." Veronica shook her head. Then she repeated, "It's complicated."

"I heard about the Ashfords, from Chris and Claire, and from things I'd read. The family really does go back a long ways."

Veronica nodded. She said, "Maybe if Uncle Alfred hadn't died, the burden wouldn't be so heavy on me." She sighed, running a hand through her wet hair, making it stick up like a faux-hawk. "Wish mom just popped out another kid. Fuck, would've been worth having to share shit, if it meant things being a little lighter on me."

Jill knew about Alfred Ashford. Claire had told her several things about the man, none of them good, and others downright strange, like his cross-dressing habit; though she didn't have the heart to tell Veronica any of that. Veronica cared a lot about her family—Jill could clearly see that—and it seemed wrong to dispel the poor girl's careful illusion of them. Besides, it wasn't her place; she hadn't been there on Rockfort, or in Antarctica, and she hadn't seen the things Claire and Chris had seen. Her knowledge was completely second-hand, cobbled together from things the Redfields had told her, and from the bits and pieces she'd read in files. "You don't have any siblings?" she asked.

Veronica shook her head and said, "Nope. Only child. From what dad tells me, I was an accident—but a good one." She laughed. "As for why mom didn't have a few kids, no idea. You think she would, given how bent she is about Ashford genetics, and all that shit. I guess she only had enough patience for one kid. Probably why."

Jill had never actually seen Alexia; though she'd always been curious about what the second most powerful black clinician looked like. Any intel the BSAA had been lucky enough to collect on her operation had been strictly text, maybe the occasional satellite image of a facility Alexia owned, or had been connected to through deals and underground mergers with weaker black clinics. Unlike Bingham, who seemed to delight in making himself known to the BSAA, Alexia had been extremely secretive and careful. They had only found Alexia through Steve, who Rebecca had found and recruited as the BSAA's Ada Wong (the whole double-agent plan had been devised by Rebecca), after following Bingham's trail of illicit transactions with a dealer named Ricardo Irving.

"So how are we gonna know we're at O'Malley's?" asked Veronica.

"On the way into Ashbury, I saw this giant neon shamrock," said Jill. "We can't miss it, I promise."


	17. Part One - The Vagabond

The rain had picked up again, smearing neon on the asphalt. Grayson was pretty sure this neighborhood was Kinney Heights, a former drug hive, where the predominant choices of narcotic had been heroine and crack. The place had been cleaned up at one point by the mayor's crack-down on drug-dealing during the early 1990s; but then the Kinney Kings had come around, an off-shoot of a bigger west coast gang, and they had driven the cops out and had taken over the neighborhood, which they had ran like a highly militant narco-dictatorship, where drugs were the currency, and they were the monarchs that minted and dispensed it to the filthy junky masses.

Now the place, typically infested with junkies and prostitutes, was empty, excluding the couple of undead they had seen. The whole street was an urban ruin that made him think of Newark, bright neon signs advertising peep-shows, run-down hole-in-the-wall restaurants, liquor stores, and pawn shops, the grimy brickwork scrawled over in colorful graffiti like an abstract cave-language: DRUGS HERE, STAY OUT, SO-AND-SO OWNS THIS CORNER, GET YOUR ILLEGAL GUNS AT THIS STOOP.

Alexia did not like places like Kinney Street, and was very open about it. She looked down on anyone who shot up, gang-banged, prostituted themselves to tired cab-drivers, and essentially chose not to do anything with themselves and live off the system. But Grayson knew it was more complicated than that, more layers to the shit. It was her elitism coloring her world-perception, because Alexia did not understand what it was like to be poor, or how hard it was for the poor to get ahead of rich, privileged people like her.

She looked around Kinney Street like it was a landfill, and it pretty much was—there were soggy newspapers on the ground, crushed cigarette packs, styrofoam containers, discarded syrettes, lengths of tire-rubber some heroine addict had probably used as a makeshift tourniquet to find a vein to hit. He saw an old sneaker in the drain too, and wondered how it had gotten there.

"Seems the trash have all died off," said Alexia, in her usual snotty way. "Why are we cutting through this neighborhood, Grayson? It smells of dog shit, piss, and garbage someone left sitting out too long."

"Because Uptown was flooded with infected," he said.

A zombie noticed them, started shuffling toward him, but Alexia tripped and stabbed it in the thin part of its skull—Grayson was pretty sure it was called the pterion—with a piece of broken pipe she had found on the side of the road. She jerked the pipe loose with a loud squelch. "You need to pay attention more, Grayson."

"Not like I can turn," he said, staring at the rotting corpse, thick blood oozing from its wound like crude oil. "I'm immune, remember? So are you. T-Veronica was derived from the T-Virus. Well, the progenitor strain that was used to create the T-Virus." Grayson shook his head. "You get what I mean."

"But is it really worth having a chunk torn from your neck?" she said.

"I can heal."

"Yes, but again, is it really worth losing a piece of your neck, Grayson?"

"Okay, fine. Stop nagging me, woman."

Alexia grinned. They walked, and she took the broken pipe with her. "I'm your wife. It's my job to nag. That said, Veronica isn't around to nag instead, so—" she clapped him on the shoulder—"you get to suffer instead, darling." Fishing her smartphone from the back pocket of her jeans, Alexia glanced at the screen and frowned. Then she said, with dramatic gravity, "We need to find a charger."

"You're fucking shitting me right now, Alexia," he said, looking at her. "You can live without social media for a bit. What the fuck are you gonna do? Tweet our situation? 'Currently in Ashbury outbreak. Hash-tag _lol help_ '."

"I don't even tweet," she said, giving him a look. "What the fuck would I tweet about, Grayson? 'Presently working on top-secret bioweapon. Hash-tag _science things_. Perhaps tell the world my opinion of Britain leaving the EU, and wind up in a tweet-war with some fifteen-year-old girl whose political opinions extend as far as her pseudo-political blog-page."

"What is your opinion on that anyway?"

"I make it a point to avoid the topics of religion and politics, Grayson. Besides, this isn't the place." Alexia put her phone away. Then she said, "I need a charger, should Veronica or Valentine call again. My battery is running low." She looked around, hands on her hips, biting her bottom lip in the way she always did whenever she had to think on the fly. "One of these disgusting little hovels must have one. Everyone owns a bloody phone these days."

"We don't have time to go house to house, Alexia," he pointed out. "We need to get to O'Malley's."

"I'm not going until I've charged this stupid phone. It's important, Grayson. It's our only connection to Veronica right now." She decided on the next house they passed, quietly opening the screen door and checking the lock.

"You got that?" he asked, standing behind her, listening to the rain drumming on the stoop's thin roof. The stoop itself was enclosed by screens. There were stacks of old plastic toys, dog bowls, broken electronics, sheets of grimy bubble-wrap, and garbage bags piled around the porch. It reeked of dirty plastic and rotting food, and it was almost overwhelming in its stench, which was compounded by the crampedness of the space.

"T-Veronica might not give me your brute strength, but I'm still stronger than the average person." Alexia broke the knob off, pushing the door open. She looked at him. "Really, Grayson. It's a fucking door. A shit one too." She went inside.

It smelled just as bad inside, as if whoever had lived here had not cleaned the house in years, and probably had not, because junkies did not care about cleanliness or good hygiene—they only cared about their high, and where and how they would get their next score. Everything else was secondary, or non-existent, to their habit. "My fucking god," said Alexia, pinching her nose. The plaster walls were covered in a yellowish patina, and the light, when Grayson turned it on, had a greasy sick quality to it. "Of course I pick a hoarder's house. Oh god, this is horrible, Grayson. How does someone _live_ in a shit-hole like this?"

"This might come as a surprise to you," he said, following her, navigating around stacks of moldering cardboard boxes, and various cheap bric-a-brac, "but most people aren't born with silver spoons—well, in your case, fucking platinum diamond-studded spoons—in their mouths when they're born, Alexia. Some people live like this, scraping by, existing in whatever way they know how. And drugs, they'll consume your life. You'll stop caring about things like dirty houses, and eventually, you'll stop noticing things like that altogether."

"You talk like you used to be an addict, Grayson," said Alexia. "I know you smoked marijuana when you were a boy, but never anything hard. Right?" She gave him a scrupulous look.

"No, nothing hard," he said, shaking his head. "I just knew guys in Atlantic City, kids in my aunt's neighborhood, who fell into drugs. It's nasty, Alexia. The things you see on television don't do the actual thing any justice. It's watching someone you knew, maybe even cared about, slowly rotting away." He looked at her. Then said, "Besides, don't take some moral high-ground, because you smoked a few times with me when we were kids. Remember that joint I got off one of the researchers?"

Alexia turned pink, probably embarrassed to have that little propriety slip brought up. "That was over thirty years ago, Grayson."

"Then that one time when you were twenty-nine, and Veronica was with my aunt for the weekend, a few weeks before she died."

"Grayson."

"Oh, and then that one other time when you were, what, thirty-four, thirty-five?"

"Grayson, if you don't shut up, I swear, I will make you shut up."

They went into the living-room. It was small, and crowded with more boxes, and more miscellaneous shit. There was a television, and it was on, though it had been muted. Then someone jumped him from behind, and Grayson went backwards and landed on his ass. Someone jabbed him, hard, in the nose, bloodying it. They swung again, but Grayson countered that blow and sent his attacker practically somersaulting across the room.

"You motherfucker!" the man said, and he ran at Grayson, at a junky's frenzied pace.

Alexia, like she had done to the zombie, tripped the man, and he went sprawling forward. She took the pipe out, and nearly stabbed him in the head—but Grayson stopped her. "Wait, Alexia." He knew the man. In the dark, his vision was like viewing the world through a Super 8 camera, so up close, he could see the ugly grainy details of the man's emaciated face.

It was Clarence, but he did not look like the Clarence Grayson remembered. He wore a soiled sleeveless shirt, dirty jeans, and his appearance was haggard and scarred. His body was thin and starved-looking. There were old black scabs all over his skin, track marks and pin-points, where he had shot up, along his tattooed forearms. His red hair was matted and greasy, and so was his beard, which, in its filthiness, almost looked brown.

"Grayson?" Clarence was missing one of his front teeth. There was a tiredness in his eyes, deep purple bags underneath them. "Oh, shit, man. I didn't know you were here. Why are you in Ashbury?"

Grayson looked past Clarence, saw a dead man in the back of the room, among a stratum of garbage. There was a knife lodged in his neck. "Clarence? What the fuck, man," he said, because he could not believe his eyes.

"Nice sunglasses, man," said Clarence, madly scratching his face and arms with dirty fingernails. His nose was running, and he kept sniffing, a weird junky-twitch periodically working through his face. "I was just—the guy here, he's an addict. And well, he put me up for a while, but then kicked me out a couple weeks back. I was just... coming back for some stuff."

"Clarence, man. What the fuck happened?"

Clarence did not say anything. He stared at nothing for a long time. Then he said, "Raccoon City, man. Now this shit." He looked at Alexia. "Alexia? Jesus, is that you? I thought you died. Grayson said you died. He was all beat up about it, couple of years ago. Right, man? You were pretty banged up about it. How's Jill?"

"We broke up. Remember, Clarence?"

Clarence nodded, though Grayson was sure he did not entirely comprehend what he had just said.

"I'm not dead," said Alexia, frowning. Grayson knew she was not happy. "What are you doing in Ashbury, Clarence?"

"Raccoon City happened. I moved around a lot after that—" Clarence sniffed again, wiping his nose on the back of his arm, and there was real pain in his eyes—"Stayed with my cousin Sherry for a while, about two years ago. She kicked me out. I lived out of my car for a while. Then I came here. Lived in numerous houses. Got kicked out of those. I'm living—or I was living—on the streets right now, because the fucking shelter turned me out."

"Clarence, I need a charger," said Alexia. Grayson knew she did not give a single shit about Clarence's hard times. "My daughter is in trouble."

"Oh, man. That's bad," said Clarence, itching his hand. He could not sit still, and kept fidgeting and shuffling around. "Um. I think Clark has a charger. He was one of my connections. Um." He went away and started rifling through the room, opening drawers, digging around the piles of trash. He found it and offered it to Alexia, who handled the charger like it was diseased material.

"You look great, Alexia," said Clarence, and he smiled a broken junky smile. "Like you haven't aged past your twenties. What's your secret? You invent a fountain of youth?"

"Something like that," she muttered, plugging the charger in and hooking her phone to it.

"My wife was pretty too," said Clarence, with a sad look. Then he said, "That's a nice-looking ring on your finger, Alexia. Did you and my good buddy Grayson get married?"

"We did," said Grayson, clearing a space for himself on the worn leather couch, some of the upholstery ripped in places, exposing the yellow foam. "How's Sherry doing?" he asked, conversationally. He did not feel bad for people; but he felt bad for Clarence, because he knew Clarence had been a decent guy once, who had owned his own trucking business back in Raccoon, and had been a good dad to Haley, and a good husband to Katie.

"She's big," said Clarence, thrusting his hands inside his pockets. He stared at the ground, and there was a look of real shame on his face, as if he hated that Grayson had to see him in this sad junky state. "In her twenties now," he added. "Only family who survived Raccoon, man."

"Jesus. Katie and Haley?"

Clarence shook his head, and sniffed.

"I'm so sorry, Clarence," he said.

"My ma and pop too. Everyone." Clarence looked at Alexia then, and this time, there was cold hatred in his pale eyes, glinting like steel. His mood shifted, became heated, furious. "All because of bitches like your wife, Grayson. Fucking scientists who can't fucking keep their hands off shit that don't need their meddling. They like to pretend they're God, but God never intended for you types to do His work for Him."

"God is an outmoded morality concept, Clarence," said Alexia, taking her phone, and the charger, and pocketing both. "God is a human construct, devised to explain the unexplainable. Where was God when you lost your wife and daughter? He let them die. Yet you still blindly follow this stupid archaic concept of a fucking sky-wizard. But I digress, I hate talking about religion. It's a personal rule I try to keep to."

"God had nothing to do with that, you murderous fucking bitch!" shouted Clarence, his face red with rage, cold fire in his eyes. He ran at Alexia, who side-stepped and kicked him, head-first, into a pile of cardboard boxes. Clarence climbed to his feet and wildly swung, but Alexia caught his wrist and painfully twisted his arm. "It's because of you fucking Umbrella assholes," said Clarence, through his rotting teeth.

He looked like he was hurting, and probably was. Alexia wasn't as strong as people infected with the Wesker virus, but she could definitely make the average man or woman cry uncle. The lack of demigod strength had been one of the drawbacks, Grayson had been told, of eschewing mutation. Still, Alexia had fire tricks, her omnipresent tentacles (though he wasn't precisely sure how omnipresent they were), and her bad temper and brain, which arguably made her more dangerous than him. "I had nothing to do with Raccoon City. I won't go into details, because I don't care enough to tell you. But if you want someone to blame, blame William Birkin, your aunt's bloody husband."

"Alexia, let his wrist go," said Grayson. "You'll break it."

"That's the point," she hissed.

"Alexia, come on. Let him come with us."

"You can't be fucking serious," she said, staring at him. Clarence complained about his wrist hurting, but Alexia ignored him. In fact, his complaining only seemed to make her want to hurt him more. "He's a fucking addict. He's liable to get us killed, Grayson."

"We can't just leave him here. I owe Clarence. He helped me through a rough time in my life."

"Why didn't the Wesker virus erase your bloody sense of empathy, like it did Albert?"

"No idea. If I was Albert's level of mechanical, I think sex would be pretty uneventful, Alexia."

Alexia leveled a look at Grayson. Then she let Clarence go, who scrambled away from her, whining like a beaten animal. "At least he'll be a good distraction, should we need to toss some meat to the zombies."

"You fucking bitch," whined Clarence, clutching his wrist. "I think you broke it."

"It's not broken, you fucking idiot," said Alexia. She kicked him in the side, as hard as she could, and Clarence yelped and curled up on the dirty floorboards, wrapping his arms around himself. "You are _pathetic_ ," she snapped. "If Grayson wouldn't stop me, I'd kill you right here."

"The only time I want to smack you is in bed, Alexia."

"Would you get off that right now?" she said, making fists. "Besides, if I wanted to, I could easily kill you, Grayson."

"I know," he said, and meant it. Then Grayson grinned and said, "But you love me."

"Yes, I do."


	18. Part One - Our Sad Songs

Things got rougher once they had left Kinney Heights. There were thousands of infected in the streets now, and some of them, Alexia had said, were infected with the enhanced strain of the T-Virus. And that was a problem, because the enhanced strain made the undead angrier, semi-intelligent (Alexia had explained it was like a hive-mind), faster, and stronger than their baseline cousins who had infected Raccoon, and who were slower and stupider.

The neighborhood they were in now had been one of the more up-scale places, but like Kinney Heights, had a drug reputation. But here, the drug of choice had been high-grade cocaine, and the gangs here had been organized outfits, contemporaries of the mafia, and other syndicates of the suit-wearing criminal variant. The population here had been predominantly white and rich, sort of like New York's Park Avenue, but with a scummier underside that the cops neglected, because the cops had been paid to neglect it.

Clarence had been holding it together, which surprised Grayson. He had gotten a gun off the dead guy in the house—Grayson was sure Clarence had said his name was Clark—and probably felt braver because of it. But Clarence would jump at the slightest noise, or panic if he saw too many undead, and more than a few times Alexia had to smack him around to get him to shut up. Alexia and him were strong because of their viruses, but they were not immortal, and would die just as easily as a guy like Clarence if enough infected piled onto them. And Grayson did not like that idea. If the zombies did not manage to take off his head, which, from what Alexia had told him, was the only way to kill his type of infection, Grayson could not regrow limbs, and did not want to be reduced to a limbless torso, unable to do anything but watch himself be eaten, and feel pain.

The street they had been walking down was too hot, so they cut through someone's house, and planned to take the back-alley around. The house was typical of a well-to-do family: very clean, very expensive, a lot of pretentious art-work and sculptural decorations. They found what had presumably been the husband, who was lying on the living-room floor on blood-soaked carpet, his stomach ripped wide open.

Clarence said, "Fucking shit," and covered his mouth, gesturing at the body with his gun. He looked around, hand still over his mouth, a sick, sad look in his eyes. Then the hand went away, and he said, "My fucking God, it's just like then. Just like Raccoon. Jesus Christ, man." There was a junky whine in his voice. "When will this shit end? I thought Umbrella was gone, man. Why's shit like this happening if they're gone?"

"The zombie who killed him is probably in the house still," said Grayson, staring up at the ceiling because he swore he heard something moving around. "Keep your eyes open," he added.

"It's all this bitch's fault," said Clarence, turning his gun on Alexia. His hand was shaking, as if the thought of shooting her scared him. "All you and your fucking scientist buddies, up in your ivory towers, fucking around with people's genetics."

Alexia did not flinch. Guns did not scare her. In fact, Grayson could not think of many things that did. "You have exactly three seconds to point that gun elsewhere, Clarence," she warned, her expression becoming frigid. "If you don't, I'm not only taking the gun, I'm also going to take your arm. Go ahead, test me."

Clarence swung the gun on him now, and said, "Grayson, man. Why the fuck are you with her?" His eyes screwed up, as if he was on the brink of a real ugly cry. "It's people like her shit like this keeps happening. How can you sleep next to this woman every fucking night, knowing blood's on her hands?Like Sean, like Haley and Katie, and my fucking parents. Jesus, man, why? People like her took everything from people like me. Average assholes who got caught up in their bullshit, all because they wanted to play God."

"Clarence, you can't hurt me," said Grayson, pushing the gun away. He knew that Clarence did not actually want to shoot him; Clarence was angry, and still coming off his kick. "So save your bullets for the undead."

He lowered his gun and sniffed, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand. "Sure I can," he muttered. "I could. You're just people."

"You can't," said Alexia, staring at him. "You can't hurt me either. We're not your average persons."

Once Grayson was sure the situation had been defused for the moment, he said, "I'm going to check out upstairs. Clarence, be easy, because Alexia's got a real short fuse." He went upstairs.

There were several doors on either side of him, and another staircase at the far end of the hallway. He opened each door, peering inside, finding nothing. Nice bedrooms, sparkling marble bathrooms, even an entertainment room with a huge flat-screen and a long lounge couch made of dark leather. But no zombies. Grayson came to the last room in the hall, right before the second staircase, and heard something moving inside.

He opened the door and went in, saw two reflective pinpoints in the corner of the bedroom, like a cat's eyes shining in light.

The female carrier lunged like a hungry lion, hitting him with the force of a train propelled by rockets. Grayson flew back, somersaulting backward over the bed and slamming his knees hard on the hardwood floor, which drove an unpleasant, almost painful, oscillation through his knee-caps. The woman snapped off one of the bedposts and swung at him; but Grayson ducked, and the bedpost put a hole in the wall.

She jerked the bedpost from the wall and whipped around, snarling like an animal. Grayson crabbed backward and kicked her legs out from under her, shattering the woman's shin-bones. She buckled, and the bedpost went right through her eye. She kneeled there, like a macabre prayer sculpture, dripping blood onto the floorboards.

"Fucking advanced types," he said, getting up.

Grayson heard a loud noise downstairs, as if a scuffle had broken out. He saw something outside the window, in the alley below. Clarence was bolting across the wet tarmac, and Alexia was hot on his heels. "Jesus fucking Christ, you two," he said aloud, opening the four-paned window and dropping down to the back-yard, dull rods of pain resonating in his shins from the impact. Grayson tore after them, before they attracted a hoard.

It wasn't difficult to catch up with them. Like Wesker, he moved fast, and easily. He was like an urban Tarzan, skidding, jumping, and running across the concrete jungle, the world reducing to super 8 impressionist shapes warped in a slip-stream. Grayson saw Alexia at the end of the alley. She had caught up with Clarence, pouncing on his back and wrestling him to the ground like an over-eager cop. She was cursing at him, an uninterrupted flurry of expletives, some of which Grayson had never actually heard before because they were definitely Briticisms, and he was not fluent in that special kind of English.

Grayson stopped behind her, and the world took clear shape again. Clarence was whining and telling her to get off of him, his fingers clawing ineffectually at the wet blacktop. Alexia banged his head against the ground and split his upper-lip. There was a cut above her eye. "You miserable son of a bitch," she snapped.

"Alexia, what the fuck happened?" he said. Grayson looked around. Then, "Be quiet. There's fucking super zombies in the area."

"Your friend tried to steal my bloody wedding ring," said Alexia.

"Clarence, what the fuck." He knew Clarence was hurting for a score, and despite the present dystopian circumstances, had not lost his junky kleptomania. "What the fuck you going to do with her ring? Pawn it to zombies?"

"I'm sorry, man," said Clarence, the cracks of his teeth red with blood. "I just—I don't fucking know, okay? Fuck."

"You're not going to escape from Ashbury," said Alexia coldly. "The military set up a perimeter. We're trapped."

"We still got the train," said Grayson.

Alexia gave him a searing look.

"A train?" said Clarence. Then he whined, "Come on, Alexia. Get off me. I'm sorry I tried to take your stupid ring, okay?"

"Grayson, I'm going to kill your stupid friend. Then I'm going to kill you."

"You're not going to do any of that," said Grayson. "Come on, Alexia. Get up."

Alexia did get up; then she kicked Clarence in the face, bloodying his nose. He groaned, rolling onto his back and cupping his nose. "You fucking crazy bitch," said Clarence, through his fingers. "It was just a stupid fucking ring, and you're rich anyway."

"Not the point. Besides, I don't like you," she said.

"What's this shit about a train?" asked Clarence, struggling to his feet. His face was pretty cut up, probably from his fall. Rain dripped from his bangs. "In fact, I'm pretty fucking confused about everything right now. Grayson, you were back at the house. No fucking way you caught up with us that quickly."

Grayson decided there was no point keeping it a secret now, and took off his sunglasses. Clarence's reaction was similar to most people's reaction when they saw his eyes. He saw confusion, as if Clarence could not quite believe what he was seeing, which slowly transmogrified into silent wide-eyed horror. "You're not even fucking human anymore," said Clarence, and the words hurt more than Grayson had anticipated, because it was him, his best friend, saying them. "What did Alexia do to you, man? Jesus Christ."

"I didn't do shit to him," said Alexia indignantly, folding her arms. "Grayson is my husband, someone who I love very much. I wouldn't touch him like that."

"Fuck you," said Clarence, spitting a gob of blood at her feet.

Alexia scowled. "I had nothing to do with Raccoon City. I told you this already."

"You were with Umbrella," said Clarence. "That puts my family's, my friends', blood on your hands." He shoved Alexia. "Do you know what it's like having to shoot your own brother in the head, because he got bitten?" He shoved her again, getting angrier. "Do you know what it's like watching your daughter, and your fucking wife, being ripped apart by undead? Put yourself in the common man's shoes, bitch. Your company caused so much fucking pain and suffering for everyone in that city. And you have the gall to sit here and act like you're a fucking altruist?"

"It was William Birkin. Not me," she said, pushing Clarence away. "Annette's husband is responsible for what fucking happened in Raccoon. You want to point fingers, point fingers at him. If it wasn't for his carelessness, the city would have never burned, and your family might still be alive."

"Don't you _dare_ talk about my family like that," warned Clarence.

"Enough. We don't have time for this shit right now," said Grayson, stepping between them. He looked at Clarence. "Alexia didn't do this to me, Clarence. A man named Martin Bingham did. I died, seventeen years ago. Shot in the head. It's a long story, and one I'd be more than happy to tell you once we're somewhere safer."

Clarence stared at him, the coldness in his eyes slowly melting away. "Okay, Grayson," he said, and he looked tired, beaten.

"I'll tell you all about it later," said Grayson. "Now this train, it's at the Umbrella plant on the edge of town. We're meeting some people at a place called O'Malley's to strike a deal, because they have my daughter right now. It's complicated."

"O'Malley's?" said Clarence, as if the name was familiar to him. Then he said, "I know the place. It's downtown. I made a few connections there for..." He trailed off, and looked ashamed, wiping his nose on the back of his wrist. There was a Celtic knot tattooed on his wrist, the words _Teaghlaigh go Brách_ worked into the design, along with the names of his daughter and wife.

"You can bring us there, Clarence?" he said.

Clarence nodded. "Yeah. I can bring you there." He looked at Grayson. "But you owe me that story."

"You'll get that, and a way out of Ashbury. I promise."


	19. Interlude 9: O'Malley's

There was an enormous neon green shamrock bolted to a steel framework, the name O'Malley's superimposed over it, spelled out in orange-yellow glass tubes. Most of the power was out in the city, excluding a few blocks, so the shamrock burned in the darkness like Constantine's cross, and could be seen from several blocks away.

O'Malley's was a typical party-bar setup, and had probably catered to a loud collegiate crowd. The bar counter, which was made of lacquered rosewood, ran along the right side of the place, and several tables occupied the left side. It was also huge; there were three floors to O'Malley's. Flat-screens were bolted to practically every wall, and neon constellations of advertisements for various beers, spirits, and wines lit up the room like Broadway.

There were a couple of bodies here, though the people had been dead for a while. One moved and reached for Veronica, but she smashed the side of its skull with the metal baseball bat, and it let out a low, pitiful moan, and died, bleeding on its table. "Fucking zombies," said Veronica.

"Try dealing with them on an almost constant basis," said Jill, circuiting the bar. She found a few more infected, shot each of them in the head, then went upstairs, found a few more, shot them, and went up to the third floor, where she eliminated the last of the infected. When she was sure the bar was clean, Jill went back downstairs and found Veronica experimenting with the soda gun.

"I think I got the hang of this," she said, fixing herself a glass and sipping. "Pretty good," she added, licking her lips.

"I hope that's not alcohol," said Jill, sitting at the bar. She ejected the empty clip from her gun, discarded it, and loaded a fresh clip.

"Relax. It's just plain root beer," said Veronica, and she sat down beside her, propping the baseball bat against the counter. Then, "You think mom and dad'll be here soon, Jill?" She stared at her drink, and frowned.

Jill patted her on the back. "It's going to be okay, Veronica." She knew Veronica wanted to go back to her parents—Jill would have wanted that too, if she was a scared sixteen-year-old—but they needed Veronica as leverage, and there was no way around that. Veronica was the only thing Alexia cared about, besides Grayson.

Veronica nodded. Then she asked, "So how many times have you dealt with zombies exactly?" She looked at her. Jill could not help but notice how pretty Veronica's eyes were. They were a very pale silvery blue. "I mean, you talk like you've seen a lot of shit, Jill."

"I have," said Jill, unsure of where to even begin. So she just talked. "I was there during the first outbreak at the Spencer estate. Then I was caught up in Raccoon City—on my day-off, no less. A few years later, Chris and I founded the BSAA. I've been all over the world since then, seen a lot of messed up shit."

"What kind of shit?" asked Veronica, sipping her root beer.

"Too much shit," said Jill honestly, shaking her head. "Let's just say I'm an expert when it comes to the undead and crazy viruses." She smiled. Had things gone a little differently in her life, Jill could imagine Veronica as her daughter. Jill saw a lot of herself in Veronica, before the cynicism had settled in and jaded her.

"So I'm curious," said Veronica, swiveling the stool around and staring at her. She put her hands on her knees, which were scraped and dirty. "How'd you meet my dad anyway?"

"A bar, actually," she said, grinning. "Your dad used to bar-tend, and occasionally bounce, for this place called The Black Room. It was a pretty popular spot. A lot of famous rock bands got their start there. It was owned by an ex-Hell's Angel named Carl. Real sweet guy, once you got to know him. Had the _cutest_ Pomeranian." Jill laughed and massaged the back of her neck, because she had a painful kink that would not go away. "I was military then, with the Delta Force training program. I was being trained for bomb disposal, and got noticed by S.T.A.R.S."

"What the hell were you doing at a place like the Black Room?"

"I was a fan of the music," said Jill. "I usually went every Friday for their live-shows, and met a lot of the bands."

"Somehow, I can't see you as some kind of groupie."

"I wasn't a groupie, and I would _never_ become a groupie," said Jill, shaking her head. "I just enjoyed the shows."

"And my dad, apparently," said Veronica.

Jill gave her a playful shove. "Your dad never talked much, honestly," she said, hooking her insteps on the bar rail. "He'd get your drinks, maybe say two or three words: _out_ , _hi_ , or _thanks_. A lot of the customers thought Grayson had a bad attitude, and I guess he did, but I figured that sort of thing came with a place like The Black Room. People just have thin skin and get their feelings hurt over stupid shit. I was actually the one who asked him out. He turned me down the first two times. But I'm pretty persistent when I like something, Veronica."

"And you got him to cave," said Veronica, laughing.

"I did. I think he just agreed so I'd finally go away, but we hit it off," said Jill. She had a lot of fond memories from that time, and could not help but reflect on them, now that they were on the topic. She remembered coffee, nice dinners, body-heated nights, the loudness of The Black Room, and Grayson watching the usual clientele with intense dislike. "Your dad definitely wasn't cut out for customer service, that's for sure. I don't blame him, though. The Black Room catered to a pretty scummy clientele, most nights. That said, when we started going out, a lot of girls—and guys—weren't happy about it. Every time his shift ended at six in the morning, he'd come back to the apartment with a small stack of phone numbers. And he'd just toss them into the trash and go to bed."

Veronica chuckled. Then she said, "Kinda funny, considering he was mom's butler. You think he'd be great at customer service."

"Being well-paid to wait on a wealthy family is a lot different than counting on tips from broke junkies, and stingy asshole drunks."

"Makes you wonder why he stuck around," said Veronica.

"When you're good-looking, tips tend to be really good, even if your attitude stinks. That, and Carl was great to your dad. Carl was a friend of your father's friend Clarence Dunn. We called him Clancy. Clancy offered your dad a job driving trucks for his company, and the money was good, but your dad didn't want to live on the highway—and I didn't want him to either."

"You sound like you cared a lot about dad," said Veronica.

"I did. And still do, I suppose," said Jill.

"What about Chris?"

"Don't get me wrong, I love Chris," she said. "But I dated your father for three years, and aside from the rough patches, we had a good thing going. He even flew to Japan once with me, so he could meet my mother's side of the family. Besides, I dated your father before I even knew who Chris was."

"Did you ever meet my Uncle Alfred, Jill? My Grandpa Scott?"

"I did." Jill remembered the coldness of Alfred's features, which had struck her as somehow reptilian in nature. Scott's face had been warmer, more emotive, the sort of face circulated in magazines, and feel-good romcom movies. She had only met them a few times, and never long enough to get to really know them beyond first impressions. Alfred had not liked her; but Scott had liked her, and she had liked Scott. "Your uncle was a stuck-up guy who hated my guts, probably because he saw me as someone encroaching on his sister's 'territory'. At least that's how your dad had explained it," said Jill. "Your grandpa liked me, and I really liked your grandpa. He used to buy me things for my birthday, and take me out to lunch. Friendly stuff, before you get any weird ideas. He was a nice guy, real old-fashioned."

The door suddenly burst open, and Jill immediately grabbed her gun and pointed it at the door. When she saw Claire and Chris, and a handful of survivors, she lowered the weapon. "Ashford attacked Claire at the hotel," said Chris, shaking off the rain. The survivors started chattering to one another in uncertain tones. When he was close enough to her, Chris lowered his voice. "I think it's a dumb idea to let her see Veronica, Jill. She might hurt these people."

"That's why Steve gave me his anti-B.O.W gun," said Jill, patting the gun rigged to her leg. "She won't give us problems. Is Claire okay?"

Claire approached them. She was dressed in jeans and a shirt, and wore a leather jacket. There were a few cuts on her face, though none of them looked serious. "I'm okay," she said, wiping at the grime on her face. "Seriously. I think Alexia went easy on me. Burned my leg, but it'll heal; one of the survivors is a doctor and patched me up."

"My sister's tough," said Chris, beaming. He slapped Claire on the back, who swayed like one of those inflatable beat-up toys. Then he got her around the neck with his arm and rubbed his knuckles into her head. "Just like her brother. Right, Goob?"

"Chris, let me go," said Claire, but she was laughing.

"How come Alexia went easy?" said Jill, because Alexia did not strike her as someone capable of going easy on anyone, especially someone she hated. "Not that I'm mad. I'm glad you're okay, Claire."

"She apparently likes having a rival," said Claire, and she shook her head. "Validates her fucking ego, I guess. Makes her feel powerful, knowing someone out there hates her so much, she'd kill her if she could. I don't pretend to understand the inner-workings of a fucking psychopath, Jill."

"Stop talking about my mom like that," said Veronica suddenly, jumping off her stool, marching over to Claire and shoving her.

Claire stumbled. She did not shove Veronica back. "Holy shit. Alexia really _did_ reproduce," she said, staring at Veronica with huge eyes. "I thought I misheard her, back at the hotel. Jesus. She looks just like her."

"Yeah, I get that a lot," said Veronica, scowling.

"Jill." Claire motioned for her, and they went to a quieter spot, near the back of the bar. "I'm with my brother. I don't think it's a good idea to meet Alexia here. Not with all these people." She glanced at the survivors, who had sat down to rest, or had started helping themselves to drinks and food behind the bar. Their expressions were abandoned, as if they had lost the world, and no longer cared they had lost it. "We found this group holed up in a subway station," said Claire. "One of the people, girl named Hannah, worked for the local radio station. So Chris and I started talking. I think we should go there, get a long-range signal out to any other survivors—maybe even to the BSAA or TerraSave—and bunk down. There's also huge screen there, like the one in Times Square, which the station used for live performances. I'm a recognizable face. People know me from TerraSave. We could put a show of our own on, get the attention of survivors who might not be near a radio, and hole up until the military sends people in, or we can get a BSAA detail out here."

"Can't," said Chris, appearing beside Claire. He frowned. "The military set up signal jammers. I tried putting a call out to Barry on one of the survivor's phones, but got noise. Steve's checking it out, but it's hard to tell how long it'll take him. The military is already moving into the city. I think they're spec ops. I saw a few of them near Kinney Heights. They shot survivors down. Ashbury might be going the way of Raccoon soon, Jill, and we need to get out of here before that happens."

"The government can't do that," said Jill. "Not after the backlash they got for the Raccoon Incident."

"They'll just blame it on ISIS," said Chris, his face grimy and shining with sweat. "'Another terrorist attack', and all that shit. Gives them another excuse to keep putting boots on the ground in the Middle East and perpetuating their fucking resource war. No, we need that train."

"We need to help the survivors then," said Claire, looking at him. "Even if Steve can't get the jammers down, we can still use the screen to get the attention of any survivors. The radio station runs on its own grid, in case they need to put out emergency broadcasts. The whole city is basically blacked out, except a couple of blocks here and there. And there's no traffic, or the usual city noise, so people can actually hear us, even see us." She gave him a pleading look. Then, "We're their only chance of surviving this shit, Chris."

Chris sighed. "You can't always save everyone, Goob."

"Don't give me that defeatist shit, Chris," said Claire. "We haven't even tried. You can give me that talk after we've done everything we possibly can to help these people."

Chris did not say anything for a long time. Then, "Okay, but how are we going to get Ashford to spill the train's location to us? You know she's going to try and take Veronica back."

"My anti-B.O.W rounds should be enough," said Jill. She glanced at Veronica, who was talking to another survivor, a girl who looked around her age. The girl was crying, and Veronica looked as if she was attempting to console her. She hoped it did not come down to killing Alexia and Grayson. Veronica loved her parents, and Jill, no matter how terrible they might be, did not want to be the one who took them away from her. "I'm just worried about Veronica, if things get ugly. She's nothing like Alexia."

Chris looked back at Veronica and smiled. "Yeah, she's actually a sweet kid. Little rough around the edges, but she's nothing like her folks."

"Hard to imagine Alexia didn't rub off on her," said Claire, with a skeptical look. "Personally, I think it's an act."

"I think you're being paranoid," said Jill.

"A certain level of paranoia is never a bad thing," said Claire. "Especially when you're dealing with the child of a psychopath."


	20. Interlude 10: Operation: Ashbury

Chris had taken the survivors ahead to the radio tower. They'd decided to go through with Claire's plan to broadcast a message to the other survivors, and make a last attempt to put a signal out to the BSAA, if Steve had managed to take down the jammers.

Claire stayed behind with her, because she was worried about Veronica. Claire's fatal flaw, Jill had noticed, was caring too much about everything. Claire was the idealist; she was convinced she could save everyone, if she tried hard enough.

They waited an hour. Then the door opened, and three people stepped inside. Jill recognized Grayson immediately; though she had to double-take because, in his black Italian suit and designer sunglasses, he looked like Albert Wesker. Another man, who stood a foot or so shorter than Grayson, stood beside him. He had a blatant junky look, and it took her a few minutes to realize who it was: Clarence Dunn. Clancy. His appearance was dirty and wasted now, though he'd been handsome once. A permanent tiredness tinged his eyes, like he was always teetering on the brink of nodding off. It hurt Jill to see him like that.

"Jill, shit. I haven't seen you in years," said Clarence, with a nervous junky smile.

"Jesus, Clarence."

"I'm sorry you have to see me like this," he said.

The last person had to be Alexia, the only female in the group. She was nothing at all like Jill had imagined. From the way Grayson had talked about her, Jill had imagined Aphrodite or Helen of Troy. Though she was certainly beautiful, maybe even striking in the uniqueness of her paleness, Alexia, at a glance, looked like any blonde Jill might have passed on the street, someone she might notice for a second, and then lose in the crowd.

Alexia was tall and slim, with long legs and broad shoulders. Her eyes were the same silvery blue of Veronica's, set in an expressionless pale mask. There was something almost animatronic about her appearance, she decided; but Jill imagined all psychopaths probably looked like Alexia—robotic and clinical.

"Jill Valentine," she said, her accent a smooth British lilt, the kind of voice that belonged in the mouths of Shakespearean stage-actresses. "I've heard so much about you. Where's my daughter?"

Veronica darted out from behind Jill and hugged Alexia. "Mom, Jesus," she said. "I missed you."

"See? And you keep saying I'm the favorite," said Grayson, smiling. It wasn't the same goofy smile Jill remembered from all those years ago; it was a plastic smile. Grayson had once called that sort of smile a retail smile, because people in retail had perfected the art of polite disingenousness. There was a certain harshness in his face now, too, as if the years had abraded the angles of his face into something shear and mean.

"They haven't hurt you, have they?" asked Alexia, smoothing the hair from Veronica's eyes and kissing her forehead.

"See? You've seen her," said Jill, yanking Veronica back. When Alexia moved, Jill pointed the anti-B.O.W gun at her, training her features into a look of cool vacancy. Claire trained her gun on Veronica's head, but Jill knew she'd never actually pull the trigger, even if she hated Alexia; it was an elaborate act, and they had to sell it. "You going to help us get to the train?" she asked. "We'll kill your fucking daughter, Alexia."

Jill had Veronica by the scruff of her school jacket. She tapped Veronica's nape with her finger; it was her signal, so Veronica knew to play along, make their act convincing.

"Mom, you better listen to them," said Veronica, and she seemed convincingly scared. Jill was impressed; the kid was a great actress. "They're serious when they say they're gonna kill me, mom. Please, don't do anything stupid. Claire dead-manned her trigger."

Jill wouldn't have picked a dicey bluff like a dead-man switch, especially with someone as intelligent as Alexia; but maybe that was what they needed to get Alexia to settle down: a tactic so absurd that she couldn't afford the gamble, on the off-chance they were serious. Jill's bigger concern, however, was Clancy. He was already shaking and scared, and he had a gun; she worried he might shoot if he got too nervous. Junkies, in her various experiences with them as a cop, were always unpredictable; the only predictable thing about them was their need for junk, and that, without their junk, their withdrawal could be violent.

"You're working with the Balaclava Guy, Jill?" Grayson was looking at the gun. "I know that fucking gun," he added coolly. "The guy in the balaclava shot me with it. Bingham put you up to this shit with my daughter?"

Light flared outside O'Malley's, searing her eyes. Tactical flashlights, several of them, all shining into the bar.

Then the rattling bursts of automatics, the glass windows tinkling and breaking, bullets pinging off the ground and walls. Jill flipped a table over and dove behind it beside Claire, and she pushed Veronica down on the floorboards between them. Grayson shoved Alexia and Clancy behind the bar, drawing a gun and shooting at their attackers. He took several bullets, but he didn't go down.

"Dad!" screamed Veronica, trying to scrabble out of cover. Claire yanked her back and told her to stay put.

"Your dad's going to be fine," said Jill, leaning out from cover and firing in the direction of the lights, eyes screwed against the white glare.

And Grayson was fine. The bullets were pushed from his body, the shells clattering to the ground, glittering like brassy beetle shells. Veronica's expression became unreadable; Jill could not tell if she was scared, or if she was curious.

Then another voice, one that was unfamiliar to Jill, said, "Hold your fire, men." It was a voice that made Jill think of cold water. It belonged to a man whose appearance fit his voice. His hair was shaved close to his head, and white. The man's face was craggy and hard, as if a hobbyist had whittled his features from a block of marble, and had only managed the rough suggestion of a face. His eyes were faintly lined, and they could have been gray, could have been ice-blue. He might have been forty, or he might have been sixty. He smiled mechanically; his right incisor was iron. "Grayson Harman," said the man. "I haven't seen you for nearly twenty years. Next time, I'll use the anti-B.O.W rounds. How's Alfred?"

"He's dead," said Grayson. He did not seem to recognize the man.

"I suppose I look different without the mask," said the man, with a throat-rumbling laugh. "Sorry to hear about Alfred. I liked him, even if he was a stingy asshole."

"Holy shit. HUNK?"

Jill knew the name HUNK from files she'd read on the BSAA's database. He'd done retrieval for Umbrella a long time ago, and he'd had a reputation for his ruthlessness and efficiency. And though she couldn't find anything conclusive, rumors had been floating around that HUNK had been black-ops during Vietnam.

HUNK kept smiling. "Well, you're sharp." He wore tactical gear: black Kevlar and fatigues. There were no identifiers on his gear that showed what organization HUNK belonged to.

HUNK glanced past Grayson and said, "Alexia Ashford. My, my, my. Nice to see you."

"You were in Europe. Killing a diplomat in Brussels. I checked into it myself," snapped Alexia.

"I lied," said HUNK, laughing. "Your problem, Alexia," said HUNK, stepping closer to her, "is thinking there's some sort of 'brotherhood' among ex-Umbrella folk. Like we're all pieces of a giant puzzle just dying to connect and form a bigger picture. But I didn't lie entirely; I _did_ kill a diplomat in Brussels. He'd tried backing out of a deal he'd made with my employer."

"Martin Bingham," she said, scowling.

HUNK nodded. "Exactly. We have a job to do here in Ashbury," he said. "Part of that job is killing survivors. Bingham isn't making the same mistake that Albert did. Albert got too careless, let the dissenters get too much power. And that's exactly how we got shit like TerraSave and the BSAA." HUNK looked at Claire then, who was stepping out from behind the table, her gun on him. "Hello, Claire Redfield. We'd never met, but I saw you in Raccoon City."

"Alexia," said Grayson suddenly, "her trigger isn't dead-manned. I fucking knew it. Grab Veronica!"

Alexia moved, but with a small gesture of his hand, HUNK had his people pointing anti-B.O.W guns at her. "Don't," warned HUNK. "I want the pleasure of killing you myself. Don't ruin that for me, Alexia."

Jill stayed behind the table with Veronica, her arm around her. "Looks like the jig is up," she said, working a smile. "Your dad called our bluff."

"Dad, he took so many bullets."

"It's a long story," said Jill. "Maybe I can give you some insight, once we're out of this shit."

There was a sudden tremendous rumbling, as though O'Malley's was about to collapse on their heads. Then long, tentacle-like things burst from the floorboards, and Jill heard Claire say, "Shit! Move!"

Jill moved, dragging Veronica with her.

More of the tentacle things came up through the floor, and Alexia, she stared at them like Carrie stared at the things she wanted to burn with her mind. There were screams, and several of HUNK's men had been impaled on the tentacles, were dragged away, scrabbling at the floorboards and gone; or bloodily flung and whipped against the walls, through windows, against the floor.

Claire started jostling them toward a door. Jill heard the automatics again, the loud groans of the tentacle things. One tentacle almost tripped her, but Jill jumped it, sprinting through O'Malley's kitchen. The tentacle thing was on her ass, knocking over the pans and pots, pushing cutting tables and prep-lines out of the way.

They found a fire exit in the back of the kitchen. Claire said, "I got you covered," and Jill fumbled with the latch, managing to push the door open, spilling into the back-alley.

Veronica looked as if she was on the precipice of a heart-attack. She was running, slipping on puddles, banging through trash cans. "What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck," she said, her eyes huge. "Jesus fucking fuck what the fuck is going on right now."


	21. Part Two - Go

Grayson had lost track of Clarence, and figured he had hid once the bodies had started dropping. O'Malley's looked like the wire-death scene from Ghost Ship: there were bodies everywhere, and blood, a lot of it, on the walls and floor. Some of the mercenaries were still alive, groaning in the dark, making wet dying noises. He saw one trying to push his intestines back inside his stomach, where Alexia's tentacle had impaled him.

The only mercenary alive was HUNK. One of Alexia's tentacles slithered along the floor, snapped up and lunged at him like an angry cobra. HUNK side-stepped, shooting it point-blank with one of the anti-B.O.W rounds, and the tentacle groaned, retreating into the dark. Another one came up behind him, and he moved, shot. It made a hurt noise, then whipped around; he picked up one of his men's body and used it as a meat-shield, putting another bullet into the tentacle. It slithered away, and then HUNK turned on Alexia, raising his gun.

Grayson jumped in the way and took the fletchette to his shoulder. Pain exploded there, moving down his arm like rusty wires, every nerve raw and screaming. He howled because the pain was so intense, and slouched against the bar, clutching the wound, warm blood seeping between his fingers.

Alexia cried, "Grayson!" and ran to him. There was a wild nervousness in her eyes. "Let me see your wound," she said, worried. "Please. Let me see it," she added, practically begging.

"Well, looks like I found your Achilles heel," said HUNK, smiling like a skull. His eyes were hard like diamonds. He gestured at Alexia with his gun. "Call your fucking tentacles off. Now, bitch. Because the next round is going between his eyes."

"Don't do it, Alexia," said Grayson, wincing. The pain was unbearable; he could feel himself being torn apart on a microscopic level, tiny nuclear bursts of unfiltered cell-torture, all simultaneously going off. "Fuck him," he added. "Fuck HUNK, and kill his ass. Go get Veronica."

"Stop talking like that," she hissed, giving him a hard look. Alexia touched his face, and her fingers were cold on his skin. Then she turned to HUNK, said, "Fine," and the tentacles started to go away. "Just leave Grayson out of this, HUNK," she added. "He has nothing to do with Bingham and I."

"He's got everything to do with you and Bingham," said HUNK, watching her. "He's Bingham's magnum opus. A failure, yeah, but one hell of a project nonetheless. And to think, he used to wash Alfred's underwear."

"As long as I'm alive, Bingham isn't going to have him," said Alexia.

"You won't be alive much longer," said HUNK, still pointing the gun at her. "Besides, Bingham doesn't need a fuck-up like Harman. He's got your research now, including the details on Code: Veronica. I might've peeked. One hell of an encryption on that shit. Took a long time to crack." HUNK was still smiling, though there was a smugness in his face now. "Bingham's got everything he needs to make a clone."

"He's going to clone Grayson?" said Alexia.

"Oops. Might've said too much," said HUNK, feigning sheepishness. Then he said, "Well, Bingham didn't specify silence in his contract. Besides, you're both going to die. And once we get your daughter, it's game over."

" _We_? What is he planning to do with Veronica?" she asked, balling her fists.

"Steve Burnside. Bad move, letting Wesker get his hands on him. Kid's got a real grudge against you, Alexia."

Grayson understood then: the Balaclava Man was Steve Burnside. Though could not believe it; he had been sure the kid was dead. "Steve Burnside survived?" he said, clenching his teeth until his jaw was sore. Grayson did everything he could to ignore the searing pain in his arm, which was slowly spreading through his chest. "You're fucking shitting me."

Alexia looked as if someone had slapped her across the face.

"Your face is priceless," said HUNK, laughing.

Grayson managed to shake most of the pain, feeling a sudden surge of adrenaline. He turned to Alexia. "Get Veronica," he said, kissing her for a long time, and with passion, because Grayson wasn't sure if he would ever get the chance again. "I'll take care of HUNK," he added softly, breaking away from the kiss. He thumbed the corner of Alexia's mouth, watching her sad blue eyes. "Veronica can't lose both her parents, Alexia. And I can't watch you die."

"Grayson, you can't honestly think I'd just walk away," she choked. Alexia was doing that thing she always did, where she tried to look tough, because she did not like crying in front of anyone. But Grayson could see the mist in her eyes, the subtle pinkness around their edges.

Even though Grayson wasn't sure he'd make it, he said, "I'll find you, I promise. Queen Ant pheromones, and all that shit, right?" He smiled, stroking her cheek. "I'll always have a trail to follow. Just go."

Alexia kissed him, and then she left, and he saw the tears glittering on her cheeks in the neon glow of a Budweiser advertisement. HUNK said, "How sweet. But you know, there's a reason I'm still in high demand, Grayson. I'm good at what I do. Your wife isn't going to survive. I'll see to that; I always finish my contracts."

"You talk," said Grayson, rushing toward HUNK, "way too fucking much, HUNK." He smashed his fist into HUNK's jaw, watching him whip sideways and loudly hit the floorboards. "I liked you better when you didn't say shit."

HUNK grinned, blood dribbling from his mouth. Grayson threw another punch, but HUNK countered, sent him violently sprawling. Idly, Grayson wondered how HUNK had that much power behind his blow, and guessed it was the suit, maybe some kind of exoskeleton deal. He got up, his shoulder screaming; the pain was making him sloppy.

"You think because you got a virus in you, you're unstoppable?" HUNK laughed, swinging a fist into his wound. Grayson screamed; the pain was indescribable. He buckled, phosphenes boiling in his vision, crystallizing into rubies, sapphires, and emeralds. "Albert had one too, and look where he is. Dead. Problem with you super-weapons is you think you're invincible and take stupid chances. I've been taking advantage of that my entire career, asshole." He punched the wound again, and Grayson howled until his throat went dry, and hurt.

HUNK pulled his anti-B.O.W gun and leveled the barrel with Grayson's head. Adrenaline surged hotter in him, until he did not feel any pain, and Grayson grabbed HUNK's wrist, twisting. The gun clattered to the floor. "You are fucking with the wrong Wesker," said Grayson, and it sounded strange, because he had never used his grandfather's surname before. But something inside him was clawing for release, and Grayson could not contain it any longer. He got up and threw his elbow into HUNK's solar plexus, and HUNK doubled over, winded.

Something flashed in HUNK's hand—a knife, coated in something yellowish and sticky—and caught Grayson in the stomach. "And you're fucking with the wrong mercenary," said HUNK coldly. Grayson clutched his stomach, a terrible pain ripping through his guts. "A synthetic resin derived from P-Epsilon," he added, helpfully. "Bingham equipped me nicely."

Grayson soldiered through the pain, riding on his adrenaline, and kicked HUNK so hard, he practically flew across the bar. Then Grayson slipstreamed and appeared behind HUNK, catching and smashing him against the floor. He stomped on HUNK's head, yanking him to his feet and slamming his head on a table coated in a thin layer of broken glass.

But HUNK was tough, and did not go down easily. Even with jagged little glass pieces sticking out of his face and blood dripping from his nostrils, HUNK was on his feet again. And before Grayson could react, HUNK drove the knife up into his stomach, in the way the Romans had done with their gladii. Then he said, "Want to hear something funny?"

Grayson gurgled unintelligibly, because he was in too much pain for words.

"If I'd taken Alfred's transport job, he might still be alive," said HUNK, removing his knife. "And this would have never happened."


	22. Interlude 11 - Elaboration

They were somewhere downtown, and had circumvented the bulk of the infected. They had somehow managed to lose Alexia, though Jill knew it was only a matter of time before she sniffed them out. Alexia was not someone who gave up easily, if everything she had heard about her was true. Jill just wished they had gotten a straight answer from Alexia about the train; but things had happened so fast at O'Malley's that it had either been leave, or die.

Veronica had been silent since they had left O'Malley's. The rain pattered around them. Jill asked, "What _can_ you tell us about the train, Veronica?" She looked at her, raindrops pelting her face. "Like what do we need to get aboard? Do you know that at least?"

Veronica looked at her, pushing her hands into her school jacket. "It uses biometric scanners. That's all I know."

Claire announced, "A thought just struck me."

"What?" asked Jill.

"Veronica looks exactly like Alexia," she said, with a knowing look. The cuts on Claire's face had healed for the most part, though her cheeks were smeared with grime, and the skin beneath her eyes was an unhealthy shade of brown, from a lack of sleep. "Maybe we could dupe the scanners?" she suggested.

"Doubt my mom's biometric scanners are that imprecise. But maybe," said Veronica. She stared at nothing, her shoe soles scraping the asphalt. Glancing between them, she asked, "What happened back there? At the bar, I mean."

Claire frowned, rain beading on the shoulders of her worn leather jacket. "You sure you wanna know?" she asked seriously.

"We did promise to tell her," said Jill.

Claire sighed. She said, "I broke into the Umbrella Paris labs, and Umbrella caught me. But instead of killing me—and to this day, I couldn't tell you why they didn't just kill me, because I was _severely_ outgunned—they shuttled me off to Rockfort, where your uncle was the warden. Think Auschwitz, if Auschwitz had been surrounded by water and sharks, and was run by the fucking Joker—or maybe the Riddler, because the Riddler is the crazy guy who does all those elaborate traps, right? Anyway, I met up with this guy—Steve Burnside, the unfriendly guy you met in the car at Hobbs—and we got caught up in an attack on Rockfort. Orchestrated by none other than Umbrella's favorite bogeyman, Albert Wesker. Long story short, after several interesting events, we wound up in Antarctica. Your mother was sleeping there."

Veronica stared at her. "Sleeping?" she said, as if she did not understand the word.

"Your mom was on ice," said Claire, looking at her. "I'm talking sci-fi movie cryostasis stuff. She woke up, and was pretty pissed off that Alfred was dead. But I guess I'd be cranky too, if I'd been sleeping fifteen years and woke up to find my brother dying in front of me. I guess her form of grieving comes in the way of murder, because she murdered Steve. He came back because of a virus she injected him with, one that Albert Wesker stabilized."

"My mom murdered Steve?"

"She did."

"Was he the one who killed my uncle?"

Claire hesitated. Then she said, slowly, "Yes."

"Can you blame her then?" asked Veronica.

"Your uncle was a bad guy," said Jill, because she had read enough on the guy, had heard enough and had seen enough in her few experiences with him, to say that with absolute certainty. "He killed people on Rockfort, Veronica. Tortured them. He even had his own Dr. Mengele to experiment on them."

Veronica did not say anything. She stared at the ground. "This all sounds like shit," she said finally. "Like the biggest, stupidest fucking lie I've ever heard. But I know you're not lying. And that's what I hate the most."

"Those tentacles you saw, I can't really tell you too much about them," said Claire, watching her. She hooked her thumbs in the pockets of her jacket. "The little I do know, they're some kind of extension of Alexia, like proxies. You know how snakes feel vibrations to feel out their environment? Or how certain bugs use their antennae? It's like that, I think, but I'm not so sure. I just know they're not exactly a physical part of her, but something like a puppet—connected to her, but manipulated through other means."

"Where the fuck do they come from?" asked Veronica.

"I was actually hoping you could tell us," said Claire, half-smiling. "They look like they're part of a plant, or something. Guess it'll remain a mystery."

"Is my mom human? My dad? What's up with them?"

"Your mom's... you know the term meta-human? Like in comic books? She's like that, I guess," said Claire.

"She's like fucking Poison Ivy. I don't know if I should think that's cool, or if I should be scared," said Veronica, shivering. She shook her head. Then she asked, looking between them, "What about my dad?"

"I did promise I'd tell you about that too," said Jill. "Building off Claire's meta-human example, your dad is a superhuman, like Albert Wesker. He has no special abilities like your mother, but he's stronger and faster than a normal person. You never wondered about his eyes? Why they looked like that?"

"I knew he was infected, but I always assumed it was, like, I don't know, in remission or something?" said Veronica, frowning. She kicked an oblong shard of asphalt, and it pinged off a nearby garbage can. Claire told her not to do that again; it would draw attention. Veronica apologized. Then she looked at Jill. "I grew up seeing his eyes like that, so I guess I never really thought about it. It's like if you grew up with someone who had a deformity, or whatever. Like growing up with an albino, you don't really think or care about their lack of melanin. Or if the person you love's gotta growth on their neck or something, you don't really notice it because you're so damn used to it."

"I guess it makes sense," said Jill. Though she could not understand how anyone could ever get used to seeing eyes like Albert Wesker's. Those eyes were not eyes that belonged in a human skull. "Albert Wesker was the first success of his type," she continued. "The first host to successfully bind to the Wesker virus. He was hand-picked by Oswell Spencer, the former president of Umbrella, to go through a eugenics program called Project Wesker. I read about it, in some files that'd been released to the BSAA after Albert's death in Kijuju."

"So my dad's infected with the same strain?"

Jill nodded. "Yes, but there's a difference. From what little we do know about it—mostly from files that we'd found sitting around the Umbrella archives since the 1980s—there was an improved strain of the Wesker virus created in 1983, but it was lost. Until now. We had no idea the strain was inside your dad until we started keeping tabs on your mom. We found references to your father's strain in some partial data extracted from a busted hard-drive we recovered in Antarctica; but it wasn't much to go on."

"So my dad's essentially an improved Albert Wesker?"

Claire cut in. "That's pretty much what Jill's saying, yeah," she said, nodding.

"One of our people, Rebecca Chambers, she's been trying to piece together the puzzle," said Jill. "But now, most of the pieces are in the hands of a man named Martin Bingham, who we're trying to corner. We were waiting on her ping, to see if she found anything about his lab—but then the jammers went up."

Veronica was quiet. Then she said, "I'll try to get you guys on the train. If I can."

Jill smiled, ruffling Veronica's wet hair. "Thank you," she said.

"We just need to make a pit-stop first," said Claire. "My brother Chris went ahead to the radio station. We're going to try and get in touch with the BSAA, if Steve managed to bring the jammers offline. And we're going to put out a televised message to the survivors, so they know to come to the train."

"Problem is, we don't know where the train even is," said Veronica.

Jill said, "Steve told me. We just need to get on it."


	23. Part Two - Radio Killed the People

Grayson wasn't sure how he was still alive, after HUNK had stabbed him. He had been sure he would die; but now, the knife-wound in his stomach had healed, and he felt okay. Getting up, he stared around his surroundings to remind himself where he was. O'Malley's, he thought. The place was called O'Malley's, and it was a bar. It stank of human rot and old blood. The mercenary bodies were still strewn across the floorboards. Some of them looked bloated: their wounds were necrotic, and there was a blueish tint to their insides, and Grayson realized it was poison, the same poison Alexia had described in Alexander's body, which had slowly killed him inside.

He did not see HUNK, and guessed he had gone ahead to complete his mission. Grayson walked, right over the mercenary bodies, their brittle flesh going slack under his shoes. One grabbed his ankle and whispered, "Help," and Grayson did help, crushing his skull under his shoe in curb-stomp fashion: the man was not in pain anymore. Grayson shook the brain from his shoe, and went on.

Alexia was omnipresent to him, a sensation he could feel on some secret cellular level. It was the pheromones: the pheromones were an integral part to the T-Veronica, communicated with him, like ants communicated in their bug-language. They told him to follow, coaxing him along scentless trails. He hoped Alexia was okay; HUNK was human, but he was not an ordinary human. HUNK had been trained from his days on Rockfort, and in his various dealings with Umbrella, how to eliminate bioweapons like Alexia and him, in the most efficient way possible. And he had the technological edge to do it.

There were a few advanced infected out here, ones who had adapted to the enhanced T-Virus and became something of a half-mutant, like the lickers he had seen in New Arklay. There were baseline zombies too, shambling in the mercury vapors of the streetlights, their cataracted eyes rolled back into their skulls, heads turned skyward, mouths hanging open while they moaned stupidly at the clouds. Grayson did not have time for this shit, and one of the half-mutant things, like the woman he had fought in the house near Kinney Heights, pounced at him. He kicked it away, shattering its skull, drops of warm thick blood splattering his cheek.

He turned into a side-alley, deciding the smarter thing to do would be going around the undead. Grayson knew he was powerful, capable of some serious damage, but enough zombies piling onto him would kill him as sure as it would kill anyone who was normal. Found a fire-escape on an old apartment building, and started up it, until he hit the roof. Alexia's trail was still in the air, and Grayson followed it, running across the rooftops, vaulting gaps with the precision of a professional free-runner.

The trail led him to an alleyway, about six blocks away from O'Malley's. He dropped down and hit the asphalt, dull lines of pain oscillating up his shins. There were graffiti murals on the walls, dumpsters overflowing with wet garbage bags, the raw stink of old food in the air.

There was an area up ahead, a square of cement separated from the alleyway by chain-link topped with barbed wire—probably a business's receiving area for deliveries. Two corrugated shutters stood beyond the fence. Alexia was slouched against one, and Grayson realized she was hurt.

"Alexia?" He ran and kneeled beside her. Alexia had been shot in the chest by an anti-B.O.W round, and the wound was turning black and necrotic, like a recluse bite. A thin film of sweat glistened on her forehead in the halogen tubes bolted above the shutters, and there was pain in, and around, her eyes. "Fuck," he snapped. "We need to get you somewhere safe." Her phone lay beside her and showed a missed call.

"I'll be all right, I think," said Alexia, closing her eyes and swallowing. "Jesus, it fucking hurts, Grayson."

"That shot should have killed you," he said.

"When I improved the T-Veronica, I made some necessary modifications using the Wesker virus," she said, gritting her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut. Alexia curled her fingers into his suit jacket, opened her eyes, and watched him. She smiled. "I'm so glad you're okay."

"I told you I'd find you," he said, and kissed her. "Come on," he added. "We need to get you inside."

"Grab my phone," she said. "It's important."

Grayson could not understand why a phone was important right now, but got it anyway. He broke the lock on one of the shutters and opened it. Then gathered Alexia into his arms and carried her inside.

It was warehouse space. There were crates stacked on pallets and shelves, dollies, a forklift. The floor was cement, and the air was thick with the smell of cardboard and plastic. He sat Alexia against a large crate covered by blue plastic tarp, then circuited the warehouse. Grayson found one of the workers squatting in a pool of gore, eyes vibrating with nameless hunger frequencies, shoving bits of his former co-worker into his mouth. Grayson snapped the zombie's neck, and it let out a short, pitiful moan, and died. Then rifled through the pockets of the half-eaten guy's coveralls, because for the first time in a long time, Grayson needed a cigarette, and hoped the asshole had one on him. Luckily, he found a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes in the guy's back pocket, and a disposable BIC.

He came back to Alexia and sat down beside her, lighting a cigarette, despite her weak protests that he should not smoke. "You've got bigger things to worry about than my occasional habits," said Grayson, puffing indolently on the filter. Something skittered across his leg, and Grayson saw a black spider about the size of a quarter; he smashed it with his palm, before it could get away, and wiped the mess on the tarp. "What happened exactly?" he asked.

Alexia sat up, still pale and sick-looking, but she seemed okay, and no longer teetering on the precipice of death. She checked her phone, muttered something that might have been a curse, and took a deep breath. "HUNK heard the phone. I forgot to set it to fucking vibrate," she said. "He appeared out of nowhere, Grayson. Shot me point-blank, and moved on. I'm not even sure if he was trying to kill me; I think he's playing some kind of game—" she closed her eyes, as if she was attempting to compose herself—"God, it hurts to bloody talk."

"Then don't talk. We can talk when you're better," said Grayson.

She shook her head and said, "I'll be okay. The Wesker virus has immunity properties, Grayson." Alexia looked at him with a pained, tired expression. "It's why you're here now, and not dead. Your body is building an immunity to P-Epsilon."

"How come it took three days, the first time?" he asked, because it had been bothering him ever since his first experience with the compound.

"Immunity takes time to build," said Alexia. "The virus needs to adapt to the chemical." She stared at him, touching his hand. "But I was worried," she said. "I was worried you'd die."

"I don't die that easily, Alexia. Not since I became this." He stared, through a haze of cigarette smoke, at the word FRAGILE stamped on the crate opposite him. Grayson bent his wrists over his knees, digging his heels into the cement. "Can't believe Burnside's alive," he said aloud, his voice faintly echoing in the warehouse and, somehow, seeming foreign to him, like a stranger's voice. "And now he's working with HUNK and Bingham. Why are they after Veronica, Alexia?"

"Remember how I'd mentioned her blood, and Jake Muller?" she said.

"Yeah."

"In theory, Veronica's blood could be used as a catalyst for the Wesker virus—for any virus," said Alexia. "I mentioned this before. Carla Radames used Jake Muller's blood as a catalyst for the C-Virus. She was able to create an enhanced strain from the blood sample." She looked at him. Then she said, "Veronica has special antibodies, cells, latent beneficial mutagens. Her entire body is a potential super battery for Bingham's viral research, Grayson. If Bingham gets Veronica, it would be like handing a hydrogen bomb to North Korea with instructions on how to deploy it."

"But Veronica seems so normal," he said, finishing his cigarette, putting it out, then lighting another one. Veronica had never struck him as ever having anything remotely odd about her; she was like every teenager, concerned more about her hobbies, grades, and what she should do on the weekends than anything else. Then, "Why not go after Jake? Couldn't Bingham get to him? I mean, he's got friends in high places, right?"

"Why settle for the weaker subject?" said Alexia. The wound had started to heal, and she looked a little more animated. "Surely you should have learned something by now about us Umbrella scientists, Grayson. We're always working toward bigger, better things. And as I said before, Bingham is a perfectionist. He won't settle for anything short of great."

"Is that why you want Veronica back?" he asked seriously, staring at her. "To use her for your experiments?"

Alexia suddenly slapped him, hard, across the face. His cheek burned. "Don't you bloody dare," she warned, her expression cooling. "Veronica is our daughter, Grayson. I love her. Don't you ever question that."

"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it.

"We'll get her before HUNK or Burnside does," she said. "I know where she's gone. The radio station. She's still with Jill Valentine and Claire Redfield."

"How can you be sure that's where they're going, Alexia?"

"I just do," she said.


	24. Interlude 12: The New Plan

The radio station stood on an intersection, a tall skyscraper with a large tower, an array of bright advertisements burning in the glass like digital stars. There was an enormous television screen bolted to a steel framework, the words AR BROADCASTING spelled out in red neon, high above the entrance. Jill could see people up on the roof, patrolling. A hoard of zombies swarmed the streets around the station, between tangles of car-wrecks, shambling in the glow of a large truck that had caught fire. Jill guessed there were thousands of infected; there was no way Chris, or anyone, could get close to the building with the undead inundating the area—as if someone had opened a flood-gate and let the dead flesh pour into the streets.

One of the zombies, a dead cop, dragged a crooked ankle along the asphalt and popped shots from his handgun, hitting a few undead, who moaned stupidly and careened into one another like dumb confused cattle. They watched the scene from behind a police cruiser—Jill had picked the lock on the trunk and looked for guns, but found nothing—and discussed plans, in low voices, about what they should do.

"Never thought I'd say this," said Claire quietly, beads of rain rolling down her face. "But we could definitely use Alexia's tentacles right now. Jesus. I can't believe how many are out there." She paused, looking around. Then she asked, "Where's Veronica?"

Jill had not realized Veronica was gone. She internally panicked for a few seconds; but Veronica came out from the shadow of a stoop and said, "Sorry, had to pee."

"You couldn't have held it until we got off the zombie-infested intersection?" asked Jill, annoyed.

"When nature calls, it calls," said Veronica plainly, crouching on her toes beside Jill and watching the infected with an intense look, her fingers curled into the rain-slick hood of the cruiser. Then she looked up at the surrounding buildings, which seemed to fold over the street like the walls of a tunnel—an effect heightened by the black sky. "Bet you Chris and the others are in one of these buildings," she said.

"My brother would definitely go somewhere with a vantage point," said Claire, looking around. "There's survivors up in the radio station. Might be hostile. He'd need a perch he could scout them out."

"Hostile? Shouldn't they be happy there are other survivors?" asked Veronica.

"Outbreaks bring out the worst in people," said Jill, looking sidelong at Veronica. "It kicks a person into complete survival mode. Kill, or be killed. It's applied Darwinism."

"It's kind of like humanity regresses a thousand years," added Claire, watching the radio station. "We go back into our little tribes, and we war with other little tribes because they're potential threats to our resources, or have resources we want. I'd say it's more like applied Tribalism, but that's just me." She grinned.

"It also provides all the psychos with a playground," said Jill, remembering several from her own experiences. One in particular was Brian Irons, the former chief of the Raccoon Police Department, who Claire had said had turned a dead woman into perverted taxidermy. "Every person who ever wanted to kill a person, but never had the balls to because they were afraid of getting caught," she added. "In an outbreak, there's nobody stopping them."

"Okay, I get it," said Veronica, and shook her head, starting to drum her fingers on the hood. Claire told her to stop it, because it would draw attention to them. "Sorry," she mumbled, stopping. Then Veronica pointed at a building: it was a tall apartment building opposite the radio station. "That would give Chris an ideal vantage point," said Veronica. "I say we check it out."

"Jesus. I guess you are Alexia's kid," said Claire.

"If my face wasn't already a dead giveaway..." Veronica grinned, then cut away down an alley.

The alley circumvented the intersection, and they were able to reach the apartment building by way of the back door. It had been locked, but Jill opened it with the lock-picker she always carried with her, and carefully stepped into the cool dark of the stairwell, which smelled faintly of something light and floral. The further up they went, the fragrance gave way to the stink of rot and blood, and they found a few bodies on one of the landings—each had been shot in the head, and Jill recognized a few of their faces; they had been survivors, and had turned.

"Chris has definitely been here," said Claire, behind her. She toed a dead man's head. When the man did not move, Claire carefully stepped over him, and slipped on blood. "Shit," she said, catching herself. "Watch your step. There's a pool of—well, you can fucking see it."

They heard noises behind one of the doors. Jill realized it was a man sobbing. She tried to look through the peep-hole, but only saw darkness. She knocked and said, "Chris, it's Jill. Open up." Claire covered Veronica and her, just in case there were infected around. "Come on, Chris. It stinks out here. Let us in."

She heard someone undoing the latches on the door. It opened, and Chris stood there, his gun out. When he saw it was them, Chris smiled. "How the fuck did you find us?" he asked. Then he opened the door and hugged her, and let them inside the apartment. Chris closed the door behind them and locked it. He smelled of sweat and damp clothes.

"Veronica," said Claire, patting Veronica on the head.

"You're definitely Alexia's kid," said Chris.

"That's what Claire said too," said Veronica. "So what's the story about those guys over in the radio station?"

"Spec Ops," said Chris. "Don't know what they're doing there. They've shot survivors who got too close."

"We got hit with a few Spec Ops guys back at O'Malley's," said Claire. "HUNK was leading them, Chris."

"Shit," said Chris, and he shook his head, wiping at his face. "What happened?"

"Alexia happened," said Jill. "She summoned these fucking tentacle things. I don't know what they were. Turned the entire bar into Vlad Tepes' art gallery."

They walked into the living-room. The apartment was big, one of those luxury places, and decorated with sleek modernity. The room was crowded with survivors, huddled in blankets and looking miserable and tired, or intensely sad. She heard one man sobbing about his boyfriend Bradley, and how Bradley should not have gone like that. Jill wondered if Bradley had been the man in the stairwell, who Claire had stepped over.

A few were talking quietly in a corner. Jill recognized one of them: it was Clarence. When he saw her, he animated a little, even managing a nervous smile, showing his broken teeth. "Jill. Shit," he said, and came over. Then the smile was gone, and Clarence asked, "What the fuck happened back at the bar?"

"Found this asshole screaming outside the radio station," said Chris, gesturing at Clarence with his gun. "He's the whole reason all the zombies flooded the fucking area. Why we lost survivors. Made so much goddamn noise. Then those guys up on the radio station started shooting at him." Chris gave Clarence a hard, mean look, shoved him into the wall, then moved toward the window, picking up a pair of digital binoculars that had been sitting on the windowsill and looking through them.

Claire scowled at Clarence. "You fucking junky asshole," she said, and she walked away.

Clarence did not say anything. He looked pleadingly at Jill.

Jill was angry, but she ignored the little mean voice in her head. She understood Clarence was scared, and because of his bad habits, was bound to make stupid decisions. Still, Jill had always made it a point not too judge too harshly; she did not know what sort of shit he had weathered in the years since Raccoon. "I'm not really sure what happened," she answered honestly. Veronica sat down on the armrest of a nearby chair, watching them. "I don't know where those tentacle things come from, just that Alexia controls them. I've learned not to question these viruses too deeply, because it just hurts my head. Shit is far beyond my spectrum of understanding, Clancy. Beyond anyone's but the scientists. They're bad, and that's pretty much all I need to know."

Clarence stared at Veronica. There were dark crescents under his eyes. "You're Alexia's kid, huh? You look just like her." He frowned, looked at the ground, then looked at Veronica again. "You have any idea what your mom did back there?"

"Nope," said Veronica, shrugging. "Not a fucking clue. Mom's been keeping some stuff from me. Like the fact she's a fucking super mutant." She studied him, expressionless. Then she said, "You're Clarence Dunn, right? Dad mentioned you before. I've seen your pictures, from when my dad lived in Raccoon. You look like shit. Heroine junky, right?"

Clarence looked ashamed. He stared at his worn sneakers, which Jill noticed had a large rip in the sole. "I wasn't always like this," he said bleakly. "I was a good, decent guy once. I had my own business, a perfect family. Then Raccoon City happened and—" his expression guttered, a profound sadness filling his eyes—"I lost them. All of it. My business. My family. The only one who survived was my cousin Sherry, but she wants nothing to do with me anymore. And your dad, my one good friend, wasn't around when shit hit the fan."

"You sound like you blame him," said Veronica, staring at him. Right then, she had the same coldness in her eyes, like her mother.

"I guess I kind of do," said Clarence, shaking his head. He looked at Jill. "Jill, we ran into each other during the Raccoon outbreak. If it hadn't been for her, I'd be dead. Sometimes I wonder if that might've been better. My life's gone to shit."

"You can always fix it," said Jill, and touched his shoulder.

"I don't think I can," said Clarence. "I'm broken, Jill. I got people killed. Your boyfriend hates me, and so do most of the survivors. I heard some of them talking. Said I should be thrown to the undead."

"Your problems aren't my dad's problems, asshole," said Veronica suddenly. "You got yourself into this mess with drugs. My dad didn't hand you the fucking syringe and say, 'Here, fuckwit. Shoot up, enjoy'. You did that, man. It was all you. And you think you're the only goddamn person who's lost someone to the zombies? My best friend was ripped apart in front of me. Do you see me asking you for a fucking hit?"

Anger flashed across Clarence's face, faint tremors of rage around his mouth, his sick-pale skin turning a shade of red. Then he shouted, "I watched the infected eat my fucking wife and daughter, you miserable little shit! My whole business vanished overnight—everything I built, gone, in just twenty-four fucking hours—and you want to sit here and preach to me about fucking drugs? You're just like your fucking mother. No fucking empathy whatsoever, and it's because of her lack of empathy that my family is dead. Without people like her, without Umbrella, there would have never been any viruses! There wouldn't be any of this—" he threw his arms out: _look around_ "—bullshit. This fucking _goddamn bullshit_."

"Fuck you," said Veronica, getting up and shoving him. "My mom might not be the nicest fucking person around, but she's a damn good mom, and I love her. So fuck you, and fuck your dead family, asshole!"

Clarence would have punched Veronica, but Jill stepped between them and said, "Knock the fucking shit off." Some of the survivors were getting restless. Jill looked sharply at Veronica. "There was no fucking need for the shit you just said, Veronica."

"Fuck you, Valentine," said Veronica, and she stormed off. "Have fun with your junky buddy," she added, right before she was out of earshot. "Wait 'til he gets Chris killed." Then she was gone, and the room was silent.

"Clarence, she's just pissed off. She didn't mean that," said Jill.

Clarence started to cry, and it was an ugly junky cry. He did not say anything else, and went away. Jill sighed, then joined Chris at the window. "About time someone told that asshole what he needed to hear," said Chris, lowering the binoculars and looking at her. "But much as I hate the guy, I get why he's the way he is. That's rough. Losing everything like that."

"Veronica had no right to say that about his family," said Jill.

"Veronica is Alexia's kid. What were you expecting? Politeness?" Chris sighed, looking through the binoculars again. "The guys are definitely professionals. I don't like it, Jill. There's definitely an agenda, though I doubt I need to tell you that."

"I've known that," said Jill, leaning against the window and watching the little black figures moving along the top of the station, shining tactical lights through the rain. "How are we going to get close, Chris? Seriously. All those fucking zombies, and then we got those guys to contend with. You, Claire, and I are the only people with experience in this group. And you and I are the only people here with military training. We can't infiltrate the place alone."

"I'm thinking," said Chris, chewing the inside of his cheek, "that maybe we should drop this whole stupid kidnap plan, because it's definitely not doing anything for us. Now this next part I'm about to say has all the appeal of drinking bleach, but we need Alexia. She's the only person who can kill hundreds of zombies at once with those weird tentacle things of hers."

"She could also kill those guys without much issue," said Jill, nodding. "Grayson could be useful, too. And besides, he goes wherever Alexia goes. Problem is getting them to agree to help us. If we give them Veronica, there goes the little leverage we had, and they'll probably just kill us." She paused, an idea striking her. "Unless."

"Unless?" said Chris.

"Alexia really wanted Martin Bingham dead, it seemed like. Back at O'Malley's, HUNK brought him up. Alexia looked real pissed off."

Chris grinned.

"We just need to contact her somehow. Veronica might know a way."


	25. Interlude 13: Listen

Jill wasn't even sure how Veronica could contact Alexia; but maybe, she thought, Alexia's virus gave her some secret way of communicating with her daughter.

Jill found Veronica on the balcony. She cracked the sliding door and coaxed her back inside. "Bad idea," said Jill, closing it behind them. "You're putting yourself in the line of fire." She pointed at the radio tower, thin red lines moving through the air. "They got snipers up there."

Veronica said, "My bad," and followed her. They went to the kitchen, away from the survivors. The way the apartment had been built, the kitchen was at the very back of the place, all sleek marble counter-tops, ambient lights (none of which were actually turned on, because there was no power), and touch-screen everything. Jill never understood the appeal of converting everything into components of the Internet of Things; the security was shoddy, and using it was like inviting voyeurs into your home.

Jill said, "We need you to contact your mom." She figured there was no point in beating around the bush; Veronica did not have the patience for that sort of approach, and they were running short on time. "Can you do that?" she asked.

Veronica stared at her, folding her arms. There was a rip in the shoulder of her school jacket. Then she asked, "Why?"

"We need to get into the radio tower. Your mom could do it."

Veronica rubbed her bottom lip with her finger. It was a habit she shared with Grayson. Whenever Grayson had deliberated anything, he'd always rubbed his lip like that. Jill could not help but smile. "Sure. I can contact her," said Veronica finally.

"Just like that?" said Jill.

"Just like that," said Veronica, grinning. "Of course, I'm not responsible for any injuries that might ensue."

"It's a risk we'll have to take," said Jill. She did not like the idea of fighting Alexia; but if it came down to it, Jill would. Her time with Albert Wesker had taught her a certain degree of fearlessness. She had endured a lot during that time, and there wasn't much left in the world that frightened her.

"Okay. If you say so, Jill." Veronica paused. Then she said, "Sorry about what I said earlier," and went away, presumably to contact Alexia through her secret channel.

Jill went back inside the living-room. She heard the soft snores, the uneasy movement, the occasional sad sleep-talk of the survivors. Though Jill heard a man speaking softly in the darkness, a tense conversation. She noticed the bright glare of his phone-screen, a woman on the phone.

Chris must have heard the man talking. He said, "How the fuck?" and went over to the guy. "How'd you get past the jammers?"

The man stopped talking and looked at Chris. The guy looked like a typical techy. He wore black-rimmed glasses, and wore a sort of harassed expression. "VOIP," said the man. "Voice over Internet Protocol. I'm using my data—"

"You've had a way of contacting the Outside this entire time, and you didn't say anything?" said Chris, through his teeth. He was furious. "You fucking asshole. People _died_! Give me that fucking phone right now, so I can contact the BSAA."

"My phone's almost dead, man. It's my wife," said the man. "She's in Florida with her mom. Please. I only have a little bit of battery life left. I might not get another chance to talk to her."

"We could arrange a way out of Ashbury," said Chris, thrusting his hand out. "Give me the phone!"

Jill stopped Chris, because she knew he would attack the man if she did not intervene. Ever since he had lost his unit, then his partner Piers, Chris was prone to violent outbursts. Jill suspected it was post-traumatic stress, but Chris refused to see someone about it, no matter how many times Jill had urged him to consider therapy. "Chris," said Jill. "Stop. Let him be. There's no guarantee we'll even get through to Rebecca or Barry. Especially if his battery is almost gone. Let the man talk to his wife. Besides, the radio tower is right there. Veronica's contacting Alexia."

Chris glared at the man. Then he said, "If more people die, it's on your hands, asshole." He turned away and went back to the window.

Jill said to the man, "Talk to her," and went to find Claire.

Claire was in the kitchen now, rummaging through the cabinets. "I'm so fucking hungry," she said, shaking her head. "But there's not much left. I gave out what there was to the survivors." She found a package of stale pop-tarts (Jill checked the expiration, and they had expired a week ago) and ripped open the package, eating. "Whoever lived here before definitely didn't like shopping, Jill. Christ."

"You think they'd have more, given how nice this place is," said Jill, shaking her head. Then, "Veronica's putting the word out to Alexia. We're going to get her to help us."

Claire stared at her like she was crazy, and Jill supposed she probably was crazy, thinking they could strike a deal with Alexia. But Jill had to try. "You're fucking insane," said Claire, confirming she did, in fact, think she was off her rocker. "This is the same woman who murdered Steve. Who chased my brother and me across the Antarctic base with the intent to kill us." She finished her pop-tarts and threw the wrapping into the trash, wiping some crumbs from the lapels of her jacket. "You think someone like that is going to _help_? You should be fucking committed, Jill."

"How else are we going to get through a thousand fucking zombies?" said Jill, sitting down at the kitchen table. It was black-lacquered wood, some kind of Norwegian Modern style. "We don't have a choice, Claire. Besides, we can help her get to Bingham. She wants Bingham dead."

"Sounds stupid," said Claire.

"We string her along long enough to think she's getting something out of the arrangement, and we get Bingham with her help. Then her."

"That's so fucking stupid," said Claire, wiping a little blob of strawberry jam from the corner of her mouth. "Alexia won't make a deal with the BSAA. Besides, we don't need her help with Bingham."

"She could help decode his research," said Jill. "Compile it in a language Rebecca could understand. I think Alexia can be convinced to help the BSAA, Claire. She doesn't strike me as a wanton psycho. She'll do things that benefit her, and in this case, it's eluding a life-sentence in an undisclosed government installation. From what I've seen, she cares a lot about her family, and I think she'll see that as a pretty sweet deal."

"Why not convince Bingham instead?" asked Claire. "He might be more inclined to help than Alexia."

"The profile we've compiled on Bingham suggests that no, he wouldn't be inclined to help us. He doesn't care about anything. Even profit. It's like he only exists to create, and make messes for the BSAA to clean up," said Jill, and shook her head. "Alexia has a family we could leverage. She cares about things. Mostly, she cares about herself. And we can exploit that for our benefit."

Claire frowned. "Still don't think it'll work, Jill."

"Then Alexia gets locked up, or killed, and that's that," said Jill, shrugging. That also meant she'd have to kill Grayson, because he would not stand by and watch Alexia die. The thought hurt Jill. Even if Grayson wasn't the man she remembered, Jill still cared about him, and did not want to kill him. There was still some humanity left inside him, Jill was sure; she could sense it, radiating from deep within his person.

"I still think this whole idea is crazy," said Claire. "But I guess we don't have a choice."

"I just need you and Chris to ease off her, so she doesn't feel threatened," said Jill. "We want her to trust us. Got it?"

"Going to be hard, considering the shit she did."

"That was almost twenty years ago, Claire," said Jill. "Yeah, it was bad. But in the end, Steve never died, so what's your issue? Sometimes I think you're just clinging to this hate you have for her because it's familiar and comfortable. I'm not saying Alexia is a good person—she isn't—but she's also not, from what I've seen, an indiscriminate killer. Even those guys back at O'Malley's, they attacked first. And she attacked us because we took her daughter. You see the pattern I'm getting at? Every time she's attacked, it's always because someone provoked her."

Claire did not say anything.

"You and Steve killed her brother," said Jill, and though she did not like to point it out—she knew Alfred had deserved it—Jill had to clarify her perspective, so Claire understood. "Provoked. Then you told me Albert threatened her over the T-Veronica. Provoked. If we didn't make Alexia feel threatened, she'd ease up. Granted, she's not going to be inviting us to dinner, or over to her place for the holidays. But she won't kill us, and that's really the point here."

"I guess you've got a point," said Claire, and it sounded like it hurt her to admit that, and probably did. She cursed under her breath. Then she said, "I hope you know what you're doing, Jill. I really do."

Jill did not honestly know what she was doing; but they had to make the attempt. Alexia was their only sure ticket out of Ashbury, and things would be so much easier if they were on the same side, even if it was only out of convenience.

She found Clarence in the stairwell, smoking a cigarette. He didn't say anything when she closed the door and stood beside him. The hand clutching the cigarette shook unsteadily, and there was a quiet nervousness in Clarence's eyes. Jill said, awkwardly, "You should be careful, Clancy. Might be infected out here."

"I don't fucking care," he said miserably, and, his hand still shaking, Clarence brought the cigarette to his lips and took a long drag, the cherry glowing in the cool darkness. "I'm a piece of shit anyway."

"You shouldn't talk like that," said Jill. "You can come out of this, Clancy. You always came out."

"You know what it's like having a habit?" asked Clarence. Jill did not know, but did not say that. She let him vent. "Drugs, they take over your life. Make you so numb, you start becoming addicted to that numbness, because then you can't feel any of the bad shit. When you're high, you forget about your problems. There's only the high. You can't get enough of it. You start off thinking you can just kick it, but then it gets you. You start emptying whatever money you have to the dealer. Then you start hocking things to the pawn shops. When you've hocked everything, you start asking people for cash, and when that doesn't work, you steal from them to supply your habit. I did a stint in jail once for a possession charge. Five fucking years, though I only did three because of good behavior, and was eligible for parole. My cousin Sherry took me in for a while—you remember Sherry, right? Good kid, not a fuck up like me—and then I stole from her to start my habit again. She found out, kicked me out. I don't blame her for not wanting anything to do with me."

"When did this all start, Clancy? After Raccoon?" she asked. "You could have called me. I would have helped you."

"I would have just stolen from you too, Jill. Even after you saved my sorry ass in Raccoon." Clarence finished his cigarette and flicked it to the floor, grinding it under his shoe. "But yeah, it happened after Raccoon. When I lost Haley and Katie. My parents. My aunt Annette." He stared at the ground, rubbing his nose with the rough heel of his palm. "You know I shot my own brother in the head, because he turned? My baby brother, Jill. Put a bullet between his eyes. What fucked up shit is that? He was gonna be promoted to Lieutenant in the R.P.D."

"I'm so sorry, Clancy. I really wish you'd called me."

"After that, I just lost control," said Clarence. "I got into drugs and drinking. Stopped drinking, but started doing harder drugs. It helped me forget about Raccoon City, and all the shit I saw there. I lost my home, my business—everything. Drifted for a while, and a few of my fellow junkies would sometimes put me up for a night or two in their shitty Section 8s. But then we'd start fighting over the drugs, and I'd have to leave, or I'd be run out by two or three crackheads, or a couple of dope-fiends like myself. I was living on the streets here in Ashbury. I couldn't hold down a job, because the need for junk was too fucking great, and I'd miss my shifts, or just stop showing up. And my habit isolated me from what family I had left."

Jill did not know what to say, so she said nothing.

"And now I see Grayson again after twenty fucking years, and he's got everything. A beautiful wife, even if I hate the bitch, a kid, money. He has the life I had, Jill, and it pisses me off. I know it's wrong to think like that, but it really does fucking piss me off."

"I can understand, I think," said Jill. "But nothing's stopping you from getting yourself back together, Clancy. You still have friends, like me, who would help you."

"I'm beyond help, Jill," he said.

"Sure you are, if you keep up with this defeatist shit," said Jill, and she smiled, mostly because it was something Claire would say. "You can get clean. People have done it. You're not doomed to forever be an addict."

"I just wish I could do everything over," said Clarence, staring at nothing. Jill had never seen anyone look as sad as Clarence did right now. "And I mean really start over. I'd set up shop in any other city but Raccoon. I only stayed there because my family was there. I'd have made it a point to hang around Grayson more as a kid, because then he might not have cut out like he did. I'd have killed Alexia when she was just a scrawny thirteen-year-old, and not some bitch with super-powers..."

"Taking it a little too far, I think," said Jill, watching him. "But I get it. You met Alexia when she was a kid?"

"Yeah," said Clarence. "She was a real fucking snob, clingy as shit. She went everywhere with Grayson, or made Grayson go everywhere with her. Looked like one of the Children of the Corn. Couldn't stand her then, and still can't stand her now, Jill. She's only gotten worse with age."

Before Jill could reply, she heard footsteps echoing around the concrete shaft. A woman, her accent British and upper-class, complained about a mess. Alexia appeared, Grayson following her like an ominous shadow. "Children of the Corn?" said Alexia loudly, scowling. "The acoustics are rather good in this place, Clarence."

"Why don't you do us all a favor, bitch, and jump off the landing?"

"You first, you drug-addled Mick," said Alexia.

"Think your tough 'cause you got tentacles?"

"Clarence, knock it off," said Grayson. He looked at Jill. "Our daughter got into contact."

"She's inside," said Jill. Then, to Clarence, "Clarence, go inside. I need to talk to them."

Clarence was probably glad to get away from Alexia, and quickly went inside. Jill turned to them. "Okay, so this kidnapping shit didn't really work out how we wanted," she said. "We want to make a deal."

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't gut you right now," said Alexia coldly.

"Simple," said Jill, staring at her. "You help us, we can get you to Bingham."

Alexia stared, as if she did not quite believe her.

"We have the BSAA looking into the location of his lab, Alexia," said Jill. "We need to get to the radio tower to contact them. There's jammers up, but we have a guy who's working to take them out. There's a sea of zombies out there, and soldiers up on the radio station who shoot anything that wanders too close."

Grayson said, "I think we should hear her out on this, baby."

Jill cringed a little. She remembered when Grayson had called her that. Manicuring her expression, Jill said, "If you help us get to the tower, and get us out of Ashbury, Alexia, we'll bring you to Bingham. The BSAA wants him dead too. It's mutually beneficial. We can talk more inside."

Alexia did not say anything immediately. Then she said, "Fine. I'll hear you out, Valentine."


	26. Part Two - Hurting Hearts

Grayson followed Alexia inside, hands in his pockets. The apartment was nice, the sort of place he would have bought if he had been in the market for an apartment. The decorations weren't really his thing, however; it was like walking through an enormous IKEA display that highlighted all the typical and unimaginative points of the IKEA look: lots of straight lines and boring, simple shapes, painted either black or white.

A few of the survivors looked at them with worried expressions, as if they expected them to pull an assault rifle and go postal. But guns had never been his favorite way of killing people anyway; guns were too easy. Grayson had found the more physical a kill was, the more fun it was, and besides, his virus gave him cool abilities, so why squander them on a trigger-kill?

Chris stood in the living-room, staring through a pair of digital binoculars out the rain-stained window. He said, without looking at them, "These guys don't fucking sleep, I swear." Chris put the binoculars down and looked at them. He stared at Alexia, unblinking. "Alexia Ashford," he said. "It's been a long time since we've talked face to face. I should kick your ass, after what you did to my sister."

Jill shook her head. "No, Chris," she said, touching his arm. "Don't."

Claire was there too, and watched Grayson with the disgust of someone who had caught a junky shooting up. "Yeah, water under the bridge," said Claire, and Grayson sensed the dry sarcasm in the statement.

"Yes, I wouldn't advise trying to kick my ass, Chris," said Alexia, looking around at the survivors, who were huddled around the room in a morose way, which might have been the same way the Titanic survivors had huddled on the deck of the Carpathia. "It would be a shame if something happened to the people here." She looked at him, her expression cold. "You forget, I essentially have my finger permanently on the kill button. One thought is all it takes, Chris. That said, where is Veronica?"

"You can talk to her in a minute, Ashford," said Chris, and Grayson could tell he was struggling to bite his tongue. He looked as if he had just swallowed something profoundly bitter. "We want to discuss things first."

"Alexia," said Grayson, "let's just listen. I'm tired of chasing them."

"You're getting too soft in your older years, Grayson," said Alexia.

Grayson grinned. "Not soft. Pragmatic. And easily exhausted, as old age tends to do." He laughed, then looked at Chris. He knew Chris hated them; Grayson could see it in Chris's eyes, and in his body-language, which had become slightly hostile. Chris experimentally fingered the gun rigged to his leg; but he would not actually shoot. At his core, Chris was an incurable bleeding heart who would never risk innocent lives, because it went against his moral code and heroic character. "Besides, they could get us to Bingham," added Grayson. "I owe the motherfucker. And if they don't get us Bingham, we'll kill them. Win-win, Alexia."

"You're sounding more and more like Albert every day," said Jill. She looked disappointed, and Grayson figured she probably was. He wasn't the same person she remembered, and Grayson liked the new him, was comfortable in the new him, and Jill wasn't the type of person who could understand that kind of acceptance—a total willingness to embrace his human badness.

"Let's get to the point," said Chris. He gestured out the window, at the radio station across the intersection. Below, figures milled in the firelight of a truck wreckage, thin red lines grazing the crowd, selecting a body, and dropping it. "There's Spec Ops on the roof over there. Probably part of HUNK's outfit. They're shooting whoever wanders too close, be it infected or human, and they've fortified the place. I'm not sure why they're there. The jammers are up, so they can't get a frequency out. I'm guessing they got caught up in the shit like us, and hunkered down in the station. There's thousands of undead down on the street, so going right through is a no-go. We need you, Alexia, to use your tentacle voodoo to take care of the infected, and the soldiers."

"What makes you think I'd even agree?" asked Alexia, and Grayson knew she was just saying that to maintain her hard-case character. She wanted Bingham dead, and knew when to seize an opportunity when it presented itself. "I could just as easily turn my vines on you."

"Alexia, knock off the tough girl shit," said Claire. "Seriously. You're fucking full of it. You want Bingham dead, right? And the BSAA can get you Bingham."

"Why are you even here?" asked Alexia, looking at her. "You're with bloody TerraSave, not the BSAA." She moved closer, leaning in real close to Claire. Alexia said, with an edge, "I'd also suggest you watch your mouth, Claire. I could kill you—all of you—easily, and you know that."

"Alexia, I swear to fucking God."

"Or you'll do what, Redfield?" said Alexia, smiling sardonically.

"Alexia, Claire, please," said Jill, gently pushing the women apart. She looked as if she had a headache, and probably did. Grayson empathized; he occasionally suffered migraines too, whenever Alexia got into one of her combative moods. Alexia got a kick out of pushing for a reaction, and would not ease off until the person either conceded and walked away, or just ignored her. "This isn't getting any of us any closer to Bingham." When Jill was sure Alexia and Claire were cool, she stepped away. She looked at Alexia and said, "This is the best opportunity you're going to get to get at Bingham, Alexia. Short of waiting around for a couple more years and hoping you find him again. And that's assuming you get around the BSAA, who, by then, will be less amicable about helping you out. You _want_ to be guantanamoed? Because that's what you're risking. Life in a government installation on some uninhabited island, being hassled by Intelligence, and never seeing your family again. If that's what you want, go ahead, walk. We'll find you later, and shuttle you off. We have data on you, Alexia. We've been compiling it for years. You're not fucking invisible on our radars anymore."

Alexia frowned. She was quiet for a stretch. Then she said, "Fine. Fine, I'll bloody help you." Her face turned sour, and Grayson almost laughed, because it looked as if Alexia had just downed some bad milk, and was only now realizing it had curdled. "God, I can't believe this."

"Glad I made my point clear enough," said Jill. "Most of the survivors are asleep now. They're beat from walking all over the city and fighting for their lives. You've got the night, Alexia. Use it vent your disappointment."

"You're all going to regret this," said Alexia, and she walked away.

"Veronica's in the kitchen," said Chris, smiling smugly.

They went to the kitchen. Veronica threw her arms around Alexia and buried her face in Alexia's shirt.

Alexia wrapped her arms around Veronica's head, stroking her hair. Grayson smiled, because he rarely ever saw them like that. She kissed the top of her head, then her cheek. "They didn't hurt you at all?"

Veronica shook her head. "No, they didn't. All of that stuff was bullshit. They needed your help. They've been good to me." She let go of Alexia, then hugged Grayson.

Grayson chuckled, pulling Veronica close and tight. "You had us worried, kiddo," he said, and kissed her on the head. He released her, then sat down at the kitchen table in the corner of the room, glad to have a comfortable seat under his ass after walking non-stop across Ashbury. There was a bottle of cognac and some glasses on the table—he guessed some survivors had dug into it earlier—and Grayson poured himself a glass, then one for Alexia. When Alexia came to get it, Grayson said, "You definitely need that."

Alexia did not answer him, downing the drink in one go. He poured her another, which she drank a little slower. "I need a lot of things right now," she said, finishing half of the second glass, then sitting across from him, rubbing her head and complaining about a migraine. "Chiefly, I need a fucking shrink. How did I go from bad guy to good guy, Grayson?"

"Wouldn't really call you a good guy, or a bad guy. You're pretty much an anti-hero."

Veronica came over and said, "Yeah. You're like Catwoman. Sometimes helps Batman, but mostly just does her own thing."

"There's one consolation, at least. I look good in leather."

Grayson bit his tongue, because Veronica was there, and she did not need that particular image of her parents. But silently agreed that Alexia looked good in leather, from various sordid and experimental experiences with her. "It's just to get Bingham," said Grayson. "This is pragmatism, Alexia. They've got something we want."

Veronica's expression collapsed. "Lisa died," she said. "We were at school, and—shit, she got ripped apart."

Someone came into the kitchen. Grayson saw Clarence in the doorway, tall and gangling, and sallow. Veronica seemed to sense that Clarence wanted to talk to them, said, "I'm gonna go preoccupy myself elsewhere," and left.

"Grayson, Alexia," said Clarence, helping himself to the cognac and sitting at the table with them. Up close, Grayson could smell his stale sweat, which was almost overwhelming in its pungency in such close proximity.

"You bloody reek," said Alexia.

"You don't smell like roses either, Alexia," said Clarence, gulping down the cognac. "It's a fucking outbreak. Nobody smells good." He lit a cigarette, his hand shaking. Grayson stared at the Celtic knot on his wrist, then noticed the word DONE tattooed on his knuckles, a letter on each finger, and figured it was a piece Clarence had gotten in prison because of its crudeness. "How have you both been, these last twenty years?" he asked.

"You told me to jump off the landing not too long ago."

"Of course I did. I don't fucking like you, Alexia," said Clarence, blowing smoke in her face. The track marks on Clarence's arms were scabbed, though he had picked at them, and the wounds were raw and red with infection. "So my question. How've you both been these last twenty _fucking_ years?" He paused. "Well, fucking thirty for you, Alexia. You look good for forty-something."

"Like she hasn't aged a day over twenty-seven," said Grayson, grinning. He leaned the chair against the wall, on its back legs.

"And you look like shit, Clarence," said Alexia. "But we've been fine. Better than you. Grayson didn't turn into a fucking junky."

"You know what? Fuck you, Alexia."

"You _wish_ you could fuck someone like me, Clarence."

"Would you both shut the fuck up?" said Grayson, looking between them. He folded his arms across his chest and propped his shoes on the table, watching Clarence in his periphery. "Alexia's just cranky," he explained. "She was cryogenically frozen for fifteen years, and I'm pretty sure she went to bed in a bad mood, and it's just hung around ever since. Like her attitude froze that way."

"Cryogenically frozen? Don't give me that shit, Grayson. This ain't a sci-fi movie," said Clarence.

"Oh yeah. Cryogenically frozen. In Antarctica. Turned into a mutant. Burned a mansion down with her flammable blood. It was a party, man." Grayson grinned. He had always wanted to tell Alexia's Antarctica story, just to see how people reacted because it sounded like the plot-line to a particularly shitty b-horror film, and nobody of any sound mind would actually believe it. "Alexia can summon tentacles—you saw it in O'Malley's—and you're calling bullshit on this story? Come on, man. But fine, don't believe me."

"Okay, so say I buy this bullshit—and I don't—then I wanna know: what's it like being frozen? I mean, is it any different from your usual existence, bitch?" Clarence grinned around the cigarette, probably proud of his joke.

Alexia smiled meaninglessly. "No, not particularly different from my usual existence," she said. "Just a great deal quieter, and far less odorous, you filthy, greasy-haired leprechaun."

"That the best you got, limey? Man, you're shit at this," said Clarence, finishing his cigarette and putting it out in his glass of cognac. His expression became serious. He said, "Don't know why you couldn't have died back in Antarctica then. If that shit is true, wish your fucking pod would have glitched, and your life support would have shorted out. I hate looking at your stupid, smug face, bitch. I really do. Right now, I got this urge to punch you, but I know Grayson would lay me out cold if I tried—maybe even kill me. Right, buddy? You'd kill me."

"Yep," said Grayson, and meant it. "Alexia's my wife, who I love the hell out of. I'd suggest you don't touch her, Clarence."

"I'm not gonna. I'm cool," said Clarence.

"Are you jealous or something, Clarence?" said Alexia, still smiling hollowly. "Do you have a thing for Grayson? Or are you surly you're no longer commanding his attention? Must be rough, being so forgotten and lonely."

"Alexia, knock it off," said Grayson hotly. Then, to Clarence, "She just likes egging people on, Clarence. Don't feed into it. But you do need to cool it. Alexia isn't Umbrella. She wasn't the one who pulled the proverbial trigger on your family, man. It was all William Birkin."

"Talking to you two is like talking to a pair of fucking robots," said Clarence.

"Why? Because we're not fueling your little pity party?" said Alexia, getting up. "I didn't kill your family, Clarence. And frankly, I don't care that they're dead, or about your feelings." She delivered the lines like a clinical sociopath, the words coming down on them like ice-cold water. "You're an insignificant bug, one I don't care to waste any more of my precious time with. Grayson, I'm going to get a shower—if the stupid thing works—and then I'm going to find Veronica, and talk to Redfield. You can deal with Clarence." She left.

"What the fuck do you see in her, man?" asked Clarence. "Other than a nice ass, decent tits, and long legs."

"Kindly don't stare at my wife's ass or tits," said Grayson. He studied the toes of his oxfords, frowning at how dirty and dull they were now. "I see a lot of things in Alexia that others don't, and never will. I've known Alexia since we were both babies, Clancy. The proximity's made me privy to some secrets. Sure, Alexia's a pretty hard nut, but she's got this whole other side only Veronica and me get to see. She's a great mom, and a great wife, and I couldn't imagine myself with another person—except, between you and I, sometimes I admittedly fantasize about Olivia Wilde in the more intimate moments. You know, to change things up a bit. Pretty sure Alexia imagines I'm Matthew Bomer sometimes, but that's cool."

"That the guy from Nice Guys? John Boy," said Clarence, scratching his head. "I don't think that really counts, man. You kind of look like him. Alexia don't look nothing like Wilde."

"I love that fucking movie," said Grayson, grinning. "Good to hear you're still into films, man."

Clarence slipped a photograph out from his back pocket and smiled at it. It was creased and worn, as if it had sat in his pocket for years, and showed a much healthier-looking him, his wife Katie, who was an attractive woman with soft features and mahogany-colored hair, and his daughter Haley, who was her mother in miniature. Grayson remembered the photo; it had been taken on Haley's sixth birthday, and it had been him who had been behind the camera. "Katie used to love renting movies from the local video store. Turned her onto films, like you turned me onto them, man. I guess I kept the interest alive because it made me feel like Katie was still around." Clarence ran his fingers along the photograph, then tucked it away.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there, Clancy," said Grayson. "But Alfred needed me. My dad's health was failing."

"I know," said Clarence. "I remember you telling me, man. I went to Scott's funeral, but kind of hung on the fringes because I'd started using, and didn't want you to see that shit. And I felt it was disrespectful to your old man, a junky showing up to his funeral like that, a syringe in the seam of his pants. Felt like I was dirtying it somehow, so I kept a low profile, stayed inconspicuous." There was a small golden crucifix around Clarence's neck, on a thin chain. He started fiddling with it. "Sometimes I wonder why God does the things He does, man. Was Katie's death part of this cosmic plan of His? Or Haley's?"

"Couldn't say, Clancy. I don't believe in that shit," said Grayson. He wasn't really sure how to handle this sort of thing; emotion had become a somewhat nebulous concept to him. Occasionally, Grayson would have flashes of empathy, of feeling, but they were becoming fewer and farther apart, and rarely happened beyond his love for Alexia and Veronica.

"I know, man. I don't agree with it, but that's something you gotta reconcile yourself with the Big Man." Clarence turned the crucifix between his fingers, staring at it. "This was the last thing Katie got me," he said. "She said she saw it in a jewelry shop she was browsing around in, and thought of me, so she bought it. It's the last thing she touched before she died. Feels like a physical part of her she left behind, like she's still here in a way. You know?"

"I think I know," said Grayson, and nodded.

"How would you feel if Alexia got ripped apart in front of you? And Veronica? Torn apart and eaten by the zombies, right there, plain as day for you to see."

"I'd probably kill myself," said Grayson seriously. "Would have just blown my brains on a wall, and accepted the coldness of the void."

"Yeah. I tried killing myself once. Took a bunch of pills, but Sherry took me to the hospital, and they saved my life and sent a bill for over ten grand. Assholes." Clarence tucked the crucifix back under his wife-beater. Then, "What shit is that, Grayson? I couldn't even kill myself properly. Movies make it look so easy, but it's really not." He looked at him. "You ever try killing yourself before, man? Like when Alexia was 'sleeping', or whatever?"

"Yeah," said Grayson honestly. "I went to this bridge outside Raccoon, while Jill was working. We were living together at the time. Well, it was an overpass, but you get what I mean. You remember the 508? The one that went over the old cement yard and train tracks? It was there. Alfred was in town and found me, and he talked me out of jumping. I thought to myself at the time, 'What an asshole, just let me die'. But I'm glad he intervened, because Alexia came back into my life."

"Alfred always did care about you, man," said Clarence. "Wasn't too great at showing it, but I guess that's something of an Ashford trait, huh?"

"Yeah, I know. I miss him. He was murdered," said Grayson.

"I'm really sorry, man."

"Yeah," said Grayson. "So am I."

Clarence asked, probably wanting to shift the subject, "What did Jill think of the 508 incident?"

Jill came into the kitchen then. Grayson guessed she had been listening. "We fought that morning I got back from work," she said, sitting opposite Grayson. "Alfred came by and told me what happened, around eight o'clock, when I'd just gotten in from a long shift. Alfred was pissed off, and so was I. We both screamed at Grayson for an hour, then Alfred took off, I guess to cool off. I wasn't done with Grayson, though. I yelled all morning at him, and cried, until I was too tired to keep going. Eventually collapsed on the couch, and went into work that night. I called Scott, and Scott took me out for breakfast, and we talked about it. It helped calm me down."

"That's what Jill thought about the 508," said Grayson, helpfully. "Dad came over and knocked me around for it."

"I can't see you crying," said Clarence, working up a smile.

"I don't usually cry. But I was so angry, I couldn't stop myself," said Jill. She looked at Clarence. Then she said, very carefully, as if every single word she was about to speak was a sensitive explosive, "I heard that stuff about Katie. I'm sorry I didn't reach you sooner in Raccoon, Clancy. I'm so, so sorry."

"It wasn't your fault, Jill," said Clarence, plaintively. "You had that thing on your ass. What was it called? Nemesis? I glimpsed that thing, when we were running down Ennerdale. Heard it repeating, 'S.T.A.R.S' in that creepy rasp of its. You had it pretty rough."

"I read something about Nemesis. Some kind of super B.O.W, right? Partially sentient?" said Grayson.

Jill nodded. "Yeah. It was hunting down all the members of S.T.A.R.S. When we got onto Ennerdale, it was right on our ass. I told Clancy to go, and I kept Nemesis busy, because Nemesis was only interested in me. Afterward, I ran into Clancy again, and Haley and Katie were already dead. We were eventually separated again, and I guess Clancy found a way out of Raccoon, because he's sitting here with us right now."

"Guy named Carlos Oliveira got me out," said Clarence. "Some South American guy, a merc or something. I don't know if he got out of Raccoon."

"He did," said Jill, and she smiled. "He boarded the same chopper I did. We still talk, now and again. He's back in South America, though I don't really know what he does down there, and part of me really doesn't want to know."

"That's good. Seemed like a decent guy," said Clarence, getting up. He could probably sense the awkward tension between Grayson and Jill, and wanted to extricate himself from the matter. "I'm gonna go... think for a while, or something." He went away, leaving Jill and him alone.

"I've been wanting to talk to you," said Jill. "Just haven't had the chance until now."

"There's not much for us to talk about, Jill."

"You left me, and didn't even have the courtesy to tell me in person. You called on a phone," said Jill, glaring at him. Suddenly, Grayson felt as if he had been transported back to 1998, and he was sitting across the dinner table from Jill, and she was chewing him out for something he had done, or had said. "I say we've got plenty to talk about, Grayson. So let's talk. Why'd you do it?"

"It was easier," said Grayson. "Alfred needed my help. I had to go."

"We were together three years, Grayson," said Jill. "We almost got married. I thought I was pregnant with your child, at one point. And you just cut clean—just like that. It was a dick thing to do, Grayson. Real asshole stuff."

"I never said I was a great guy," said Grayson. "I just never bothered to correct you."

Jill did not say anything. She got up, and Grayson half-expected her to hit him, or maybe get in his face and shout for a while like old times, when Jill would get so frustrated that she could not do anything else but yell, sometimes shouting at him in Japanese, which she had learned from her mother, interspersing it with whatever English expletive she had happened to think of. But Jill did not do any of that; she bent over him and grabbed his face, kissing him fully on the mouth, staying like that for a long time, occasionally slipping a bit of hungry tongue.

Grayson could not decide what sort of kiss it was. It did not come across as particularly romantic, but more reactionary, a needing to know something. He did not kiss Jill back, even if his less intelligent head urged him to do so, and to do more. But Grayson loved Alexia, and wanted his hands to be clean if she found out about the kiss, which Alexia undoubtedly would.

Jill finished kissing him, perhaps having gotten whatever answer she had been looking for, or perhaps frustrated Grayson had not participated in the kiss, and she wanted to cut clean while she could. She stared at him and said something in Japanese, which sounded soft, full of feeling. Grayson did not understand; he had never bothered to learn the language, figuring things with Jill would not last—and they had not.

"Chris isn't going to be happy," said Grayson.

"I know," said Jill, and she frowned.

"You don't care?"

"I do," she said. "And I'll own up to it."

"You're too honest," said Grayson. "You need to learn to lie better, Jill."

"If I did that, I'd be no better than Alexia."

Jill kissed him one more time, but this time, it was shorter, almost guilty in the quality of it. Then it was over, and Jill was gone. Grayson stayed in the kitchen, and drank more cognac—this time from the bottle.


	27. Interlude 14: Pillow Talk

Alexia wasn't sure what time it was, but was sure it was late. Everyone had gone to sleep, except Grayson, who was drunk in the kitchen, and the Redfields, who had decided to keep watch—Chris had not moved from the window, and Claire, last Alexia had seen her, had been slouched against a wall, comforting a little girl whose mother had apparently died, and who was probably among the bodies in the stairwell.

As she passed the bathroom, Alexia heard praying, and was sure it was Clarence. She thought it was ridiculous; prayers were nothing more than mantras to soothe away human fears, because humans always looked to someone else, or something else like God, to solve their problems for them. It was how the politicians had gotten so much power; they capitalized on the complacency of the public, who more readily prayed away their problems— _prayers to your family_ ; _my family will pray for you_ ; _look to God, and let Him guide you_ ; _God has a plan for everything_ ; _heaven just received another angel, R.I.P_ —through various media platforms, and pointless hash-tag social movements, than actually forcing the change they apparently so longed for.

Alexia shook her head, not wanting to think about it anymore. It only made her angry, and her head was throbbing too much. She moved on from the bathroom, and found Veronica sleeping in one of the bedrooms. Alexia found it strange that there weren't any survivors in here, though she was glad, because she needed to rest, and did not want to listen to people sniveling about their losses all night long. She removed her blazer and hung it on a bedpost, and climbed onto the bed beside Veronica, watching the inert ceiling fan and wishing they had power, because the entire apartment was sweltering with summer city-heat.

Veronica stirred beside her, half-opening her eyes. She said, "Hey, mom. You trying to sleep?"

"Trying," said Alexia, closing her eyes. Though she was tired, she could not actually sleep because the heat was so oppressive. It made her think of the nights on Rockfort, on the rare occasions they had lost power because a storm had knocked out their auxiliary generators. They had slept in uncomfortable South Pacific humidity, listening to the annoying prison noises, or the loud, incessant chirping of cicadas. At least, Alexia thought, there was a silver-lining: Ashbury was dead-silent—no traffic, no people shouting at each other from windows, or down and across the streets. Just the occasional distant pops of gunshots, and the low wailing of the infected. "But this bloody heat is pissing me off," she added.

Veronica threw an arm across her, curling against her side. Normally, Alexia would have complained because it was too hot. But she enjoyed the closeness, despite how uncomfortable it was. "My theory," said Veronica, "is you Brits just can't handle heat. Temperature hits seventy, and you're complaining it's too warm."

Alexia chuckled, stroking Veronica's arm. "Oh yes," she teased, "we can't stand weather that's above four degrees Celsius, and not cloudy or rainy."

"We use Fahrenheit here in the States, mom. Get with it."

"I think it's so bloody stupid that America, and a handful of islands, use Fahrenheit."

"Guess what? You're part of the club now. You're a naturalized Yank, mom."

"Doesn't mean I have to use Fahrenheit, Veronica. Or like football. Ugh, I hate calling it that. Football is when you kick the damn thing into a net."

"Soccer, mom."

"No, Veronica. Football." Alexia smiled. She enjoyed bantering with Veronica, because it was such a rare thing. Veronica was usually aloof at best, or outright hostile at her worst, and it was usually difficult for them to ever talk without it evolving into a shouting match. Something glared in her periphery, and Alexia turned her head, saw Veronica fiddling with her phone.

"They don't know you have that, I hope," said Alexia.

"Nope. Told them I left it at Hobbs," said Veronica, tucking it back inside her school jacket, which she had thrown across the night-stand. "Relax," she added, rolling onto her back and folding her arms behind her head.

"Good," said Alexia.

"Hey, mom?"

"Yes, Veronica?"

"That tentacle shit you did, back at O'Malley's," said Veronica, rolling onto her side and looking at her. "Does it have to do with Antarctica?"

The question caught Alexia off-guard; she had not told Veronica much, if anything, about that time.

"Claire told me about it," continued Veronica. "You were on ice, sleeping for fifteen years. I wouldn't usually believe that sort of shit, but I've seen crazy things in your laboratory, and that tentacle shit finally made me a believer. I wanna hear your side of things."

Alexia rolled onto her side and watched her. "You've asked me before why there aren't any pictures of me as a teenager, or as a young adult," she said. "I was asleep for fifteen years in cryostasis, in a machine I'd built. When I was thirteen, I injected myself with a virus called the T-Veronica. The only way to properly bind it to my DNA was at an ultra-low temperature; otherwise, the virus would have violently mutated my body, then killed me. Your uncle Alfred was initially tasked to wake me up, on exactly December 27th, 1998. He didn't make it; he'd been shot by a man named Steve Burnside, a cohort of Claire's from Rockfort Prison. Your father woke me up instead."

"I knew about Steve. Claire told me he shot uncle Alfred, and I met him when Jill and the others picked me up at Hobbs," said Veronica. "So you took revenge. Right?"

"Yes, but it apparently wasn't permanent," said Alexia. She paused. Then, "Wait, you met Steve at Hobbs?"

"Yeah, he was working with Jill and Chris," said Veronica.

Alexia understood now. The BSAA was utilizing Steve as a double-agent; he was the one who would lead them to Bingham, who would funnel Bingham's sensitive data into the BSAA's data-banks, and finally give them the means to stymie his operation. "When was the last time Steve met with Jill, or any of the others?" she asked.

"Not since Hobbs," said Veronica. "Said he had to meet someone. I think it was that guy Bingham everyone keeps talking about. Then Steve went to work on taking the jammers offline, and nobody's heard from him since. Claire's getting worried." She paused. Then Veronica asked, "Who the fuck is Bingham anyway, and why's everyone after him?"

Alexia wanted to tell Veronica that Bingham was after her blood. But she did not say any of that. "Bingham was the chief medical scientist at the Antarctica facility, where I was the director," she explained. "This was back in 1983. He's the reason your father is the way he is now."

"Bingham was a former Umbrella scientist?"

"Yes," she said. "He was. He's also very dangerous."

"More dangerous than you?"

Alexia smiled, kissing Veronica's cheek. "Nobody is more dangerous than me," she lied, effecting an air of confidence. Truthfully, Bingham was far more dangerous than her, and his lack of any clear goal, besides creating the most powerful, perfect superhuman he could, made it even worse. There was nothing they could leverage against him, nothing Bingham was scared of losing other than his life—and Alexia wasn't even sure if he was scared to lose that. Whereas Alexia was painfully aware of her own weaknesses, and her current situation was a testament to that awareness: she did not want to lose her family, and she did not want to spend the rest of her life in prison, and because of that, the BSAA had managed to exploit her. But Bingham, unlike her, could not be exploited.

Veronica smiled. "You know, when I saw that shit in O'Malley's, I was scared of you for a little bit," she said. "I'm glad I got nothing to be scared of."

"You don't," she assured her, brushing hairs from Veronica's face. "You've absolutely nothing to be scared of, Veronica. I love you, and I wouldn't hurt you."

"I know, mom." Her smile widened. "Hey, what was it like being cryogenically frozen anyway?"

"Like a very, very deep sleep," said Alexia. She could not quite describe the experience, or the strange sleep-sensations she had felt while in suspended animation. Alexia guessed, if she had to explain it somehow, she would describe it like a vivid dream, but one that did not end, and would sometimes fold away into cold blackness, then sporadically light up, neon clarity unfolding across the darkness behind her eyelids and forming familiar shapes, which eventually became childhood scenes, or possible future ones. "Like a vivid dream," she said finally. "I dreamed a lot. About your father, about your uncle. It was like I'd locked myself away in an anchorage for fifteen years, and spent those years in deep meditation."

"Did you feel the cold?"

Alexia shook her head. "No, I didn't." She playfully pushed Veronica's head down on the pillow. "Enough with the interrogation. Go to sleep, Veronica."

They slept. When Alexia woke, she had to carefully untangle herself from Veronica, so she did not wake her. It amazed Alexia how, despite her age, Veronica was still very much a child. And like a child, she was also not a very graceful sleeper; she was sweaty, and her face was half-buried in the pillow, mouth slightly hung open, her legs bent oddly. Alexia smiled, patted Veronica on the head, then took her blazer from the bedpost and put it on, pausing a moment in front of the mirror to make herself somewhat presentable.

She went out into the living-room, and it was oddly silent. It wasn't as if the people had gone—the survivors were still there, pacing around the living-room, or chatting quietly among each other—but there was a certain quietness about the place that made her think, specifically, of funerals.

Alexia found Grayson in the bathroom. He was bent over, and at first, she thought he had been hurt. Then Alexia noticed Clarence on the tiled floor, and realized Grayson was bent over him. Clarence was dead, the syringe still stuck in his arm and filled with blood. He had used his shoelaces as a tourniquet, and had probably been dead for several hours. Alexia supposed it had happened during the night, and now realized why Clarence had been praying. A small golden crucifix glinted in his fingers, the chain wrapped around his wrist like a rosary.

"I was drinking last night," said Grayson, staring at Clarence. "Got up to take a piss and found him."

"I'm sorry, Grayson," said Alexia. Though she did not give a shit that Clarence was dead—he had been a liability—she understood the man had, for whatever reason, meant something to Grayson, and respected that.

"Yeah," he said, standing up.

"Does Jill know?"

"Yeah, she does."

"Redfield?"

"Both of them, Alexia. They're keeping the survivors away from the bathroom." Grayson went quiet. "Fucking idiot. Knew it'd end like this, but hoped it wouldn't." Alexia noticed that Grayson was holding a photograph, which he slipped into his pocket. He stooped, opened Clarence's fingers with a loud snap, and took the crucifix.

"Isn't it in poor taste to steal from the dead?" said Alexia.

"Not stealing. When this shit's over, I'm going to make a pit-stop." They left the bathroom together. Then Grayson said, shutting the door behind him, "Go wake Veronica. We're going to hit the radio tower."


	28. Part Two - Florentino, Barely Knew Thee

Grayson waited for the Redfields to herd the survivors out the door. When they had, Alexia and him followed them out of the apartment. He hopped over the pile of bodies on the landing, which had started to decompose, a rank stench of rotten flesh thick in the air, compounded in its pungency by the narrowness of the stair-shaft. A few undead had trickled into the alley behind the apartment complex, but Jill and Chris quickly dropped them—dead-center between the eyes.

Some of the survivors had armed themselves with various weapons-of-opportunity—pipes, crowbars, baseball bats, a large kitchen knife, and in one woman's case, a long piece of thick glass which had probably come from a windshield. Grayson doubted any of them actually knew how to fight, and figured they had only grabbed the weapons to cast an illusion of security, in similar fashion to a child who hid under their blankets because it emboldened them against the bogeyman.

He lit another cigarette—Grayson had saved the pack of Lucky Strikes—and said, to Alexia, "This group is something else." He smiled sardonically and shook his head.

"I've never seen a more pathetic lot in my entire life," said Alexia, loud enough for the people to hear.

A few survivors scowled at her, but they did not say anything because they lacked the necessary balls for that particular confrontation. Besides, they were convinced that Alexia was some kind of witch, after Jill had explained the tentacle thing to them ("I don't want them to get too shocked," Jill had told him. "Zombies are bad enough").

Veronica seemed pretty well-adapted to the circumstances now. There was an aloofness about her, as if she had resigned to the nightmarish shit and decided to take it all in stride. She made Grayson proud.

"How are you doing, Grayson?" asked Alexia suddenly, walking alongside him. He knew she was talking about Clarence, but in her usual obtuse way. Alexia, like him, was awkward with consolation. They had certainly gotten better at it since Antarctica; but there was still a lot of room for improvement.

"I'm all right," he said, and it wasn't entirely a lie. Grayson accepted that Clarence was dead, and knew there wasn't any point in dwelling on it; no amount of regrets would bring Clarence back. Besides, Grayson was sure he lacked the necessary emotional capacity for anything beyond his family. The Wesker virus had blunted him, smoothed him into a thing of dull stone. Still, that small human part which remained of his former existence—as Grayson the butler, as Grayson the surly bartender—told him that he should cry, that the release would be healthy for him. But no matter how hard Grayson tried, he could not conjure a single tear.

"You don't look entirely convinced," said Alexia. Like Grayson had developed a talent for reading her, Alexia had developed a talent for reading him. They operated on a kind of co-dependency; Grayson theorized it was the Queen Ant pheromones that facilitated their symbiosis, though liked to think it was more than that—a profound intimacy of each other fostered by a lifetime of close proximity.

Grayson smiled. "Because I'm not convinced, Alexia. Clancy was my best friend, outside you and Alfred."

Jill stared at him. When Grayson made eye contact, she looked away.

If Alexia had noticed Jill looking, she did not make the knowledge apparent to him. She said, "He was a drug addict, Grayson. He was a liability. Besides, if Clarence didn't die there, he would have died elsewhere anyway. Probably in a deal gone bad, or out in some gutter somewhere. He had no intention of ever getting clean, darling. He would have taken your money and cut loose, then spent it on more product."

"Maybe you're right," he said. "Or maybe you're wrong, Alexia."

"You know I'm rarely ever wrong, dear."

Claire slowed her pace, walking right alongside Alexia. She carried a sawed-off, which she had found on a dead cop. "Anyone ever mention you're a cold bitch, Alexia?"

"Feeling awfully brave, Claire."

"Alexia, cut the shit. You're really not that scary anymore," said Claire, resting the shotgun on her shoulder. "If I was thrown into a room with all the Umbrella scientists, you'd be the one I'd be least scared of."

"Is that the case?" said Alexia, as if Claire was challenging her.

"Yeah. That is the case. Without that weird dress of yours, you just look like a typical PTA mom."

At the front of the group, Veronica laughed; but she was quickly shushed by Chris and Jill.

"That 'weird dress' cost more than you make in an entire bloody year, Claire."

Claire grinned. Then she said, her expression sobering, "Clarence was a junky, sure. Maybe he didn't have the intention to change. But just because someone starts out that way doesn't mean they can't change down the road, Alexia. Sherry told me about him once. He was a good guy. Wish I hadn't been so hard on him, but he got people killed."

They arrived at the intersection. Alexia told everyone to stand back—unless they wanted to die. The survivors shrunk against the brickwork of a clothing boutique, and Alexia went to work. She stood there, as if in a trance, and there was a powerful rumbling under their feet, several tentacles bursting from the asphalt and bloodily ripping through the zombies at lightning speed. Grayson heard the Spec Ops unit panicking above. They started firing at the tentacles; but like a hydra, every time they cut one tentacle down, three more sprung up in its place.

The survivors were getting antsy, and Grayson heard a few of the kids crying about monsters, while their parents, or the nearest adult, tried to quiet them down. "Just be glad she's on our side," Grayson heard a man say. A woman replied, "She's a goddamn monster."

The tendrils groaned around him. Wet splats, and the sharp crunch of bones breaking as human remains rained down on the road, reduced to unidentifiable meat-paste. A few tentacles slithered up the sides of the radio station, crashing through windows, flinging down screaming mercenaries from several stories above. One splattered near Grayson, and there was barely anything left of the guy that was recognizably human.

Alexia smiled.

"Jesus Christ," said Chris.

Most of the zombies were dead now, an assemblage of random parts and gore-chunks strewn across the intersection. Claire was the first to venture toward the radio tower, followed by Chris and Jill, then the survivors, flesh squelching loudly under their shoes. The survivors were wide-eyed and fear-pale, gaping at the forest of Kraken extremities looming above their heads, blotting out the rain and sky.

Chris said, "Put your fucking shit away, Alexia. Now."

Alexia smiled coldly. "Afraid I'm going to turn them on you?" she asked. "Are you nervous, Chris?"

Jill pointed the anti-B.O.W gun at Alexia. "I still have this, Ashford," she said. "You need us more than we need you. Put those things away—whatever the fuck they are."

Alexia put her hands up, in a show of pacifism. "None of you can take a bloody joke." The tentacles retreated into the ground and were gone. Then Alexia made a small, pointless adjustment to her blazer, observing the group with a haughty look. "Tough crowd," she added, starting toward the radio station.

"That's your idea of a joke?" asked Jill, putting the gun away. She followed Alexia across the intersection, her hand lingering protectively on the gun's rubber grip. "Don't ever do stand-up, Alexia. You're about as funny as Jerry Seinfeld."

"Think you're giving her too much credit," said Claire, smirking. She came up behind Jill and glanced at Alexia, who ignored them. "Not to say Jerry's funny, because he's really not. Only people who like him are white guys with no sense of humor." She gave Alexia a slight push; it had not been a particularly hostile push, but it had not been particularly friendly either. "Right, Alexia? You got that weird British humor nobody finds funny."

Grayson was amused. It was always funny when Alexia got hassled. He saw the irritation working her features, slowly becoming more apparent. "Piss _off_!" she said.

"Mom doesn't laugh at anything," said Veronica, helpfully.

They entered the radio station, which was running on auxiliary power. The lobby was a large square space with granite tile, done in a red-black-white scheme. There was a sitting area in the center: low-sitting leather couches arranged around a glass coffee-table, where several magazines were stacked. Grayson idly flipped through last week's issue of TIME, then put it back down and walked. Kandinsky prints decorated the walls. There was a dead guy at the reception desk, a bullet-hole between his eyes. Grayson supposed he had been one of the station employees, and had been killed by the Spec Ops unit. The man's computer was still on, and showed LOGIN ERROR on the blood-spattered screen.

There were four elevators in the back of the lobby. Grayson said, "You people wait here," and stepped inside with Alexia. "We're going to check it out."

"I'll come with you, Grayson," said Jill.

"No, Jill. Stay here with the survivors," he said. "Alexia and I can handle it." The doors shut.

"Never a boring day with you, Grayson," said Alexia.

Grayson thumb-punched the button for the top floor. Tinny elevator music played, some kind of lounge-jazz shit with xylophones, saxophones, and string rhythms. "You hearing this shit?" he asked.

"It's elevator music, Grayson. What are you expecting? Grammy-worthy stuff?"

"Grammies don't mean shit. They hand them out to every shitty musician these days who manages to get a hit on the charts." The elevator lurched and started up. Grayson stared at their dirty reflections in the chrome, feeling a sudden urgent need for a hot shower. He shoved his hands inside his pockets.

The elevator stopped. As the doors slid open, they were greeted by the remnants of HUNK's unit. Grayson recognized the guns; they were all packing anti-B.O.W heat.

The entire group was a stony-faced bunch. A Hispanic guy, whose eyes reminded Grayson of beetle-shells set in a smooth tanned mask, stood at the front of the group. He guessed the man was their Captain; he had a severe enough look. His hair was jet black and shaved on the sides. Grayson had him pegged for thirty-four, maybe thirty-five. Like the rest of his unit, he wore plain black fatigues and Kevlar gear. There was a name embroidered on his Kevlar vest, right above an emblem that said B.C.S.F on his breast pocket, and identified the man as Florentino Raval.

"Step out," said the man, his voice slightly accented. "Now."

They stepped out. Grayson watched the group, paying special attention to their hands.

"Alexia Ashford," said Florentino.

"You know me?"

"Yeah," said Florentino. A sheen of sweat glistened on his face. "Wanted bio-terrorist. Member of the illustrious Ashford family." The man said Ashford like it was poison. "Your brother killed my cousin Rodrigo, back on Rockfort."

"I don't know who your cousin is," said Alexia, watching the gun.

"I do," said Grayson. "Led a security force with Umbrella. Small world."

Florentino and his people pushed them down a dark carpeted corridor. There were computers and radio mics beyond several panels of soundproof glass. "Taking Rockfort from my people wasn't enough for your family?" asked Florentino, shoving Alexia with his gun. "You had to go take Ashbury too?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" asked Alexia, staring straight ahead.

"You did Ashbury. You infected it." Florentino smiled without mirth. Then he squeezed Alexia's ass, and said, "But I want to have a little fun first, yeah?"

Grayson grabbed Florentino's wrist and jerked it, snapping the bone, some of it poking through the strip of brown skin between his shirt-sleeve and glove. Florentino howled and sank to his knees, and the others opened fire. He threw Florentino into them, and wove between the bullets, snapping his leg up and caving the side of a woman's skull with his heel, turning around, twisting a man's arm around until he heard the joints pop loose, then hurling the guy through one of the soundproof windows.

"Kill this motherfucker!" shouted Florentino, gripping his bent, ruined wrist.

One of his men caught Grayson in the abdomen with an anti-B.O.W round—and though it was painful, it wasn't as bad as the first two times. The man said, "This shit ain't bringing him down!" and went to reload. Grayson picked up a large shard of glass and flicked it, like a throwing knife trick, into the man's neck, who gurgled and died.

Then the pain from the anti-B.O.W exploded in his body, and Grayson slumped against the wall, clutching his wound. It certainly wasn't as painful as it had been before, but it still hurt, made it hard to breathe. His breath kept hitching in his throat, and his stomach felt as if someone had pressed it against a hot skillet.

There were a handful of the mercenaries left. Alexia's tentacles ripped through them, bloodily whipping the soldiers against the walls, the floor, or dragging them, screaming and clawing, out windows, and down twenty-five stories to the pavement below. She came over and asked, "Are you all right, Grayson?"

"I'm okay," he said, gripping Alexia's hand and climbing to his feet. Grayson stood slightly bent over, hand over his wound, feeling blood-warmth between his fingers, trickling onto the geometric carpet. He winced, a twinge working through his gut. "But God fucking Christ, does it hurt, Alexia."

"You'll be all right, darling."

"Yeah. I guess."

Alexia walked toward Florentino, who was the only mercenary alive. Her tentacles were poised around her like a bevy of angry cobras. She crouched on her toes in front of him. "What was your company doing in this station, Captain Raval?" asked Alexia coolly.

Florentino cursed softly, still clutching his shattered wrist. He looked as if he wanted to protest; though the defiance quickly bled away from his face, supplanted by unpleasant realization: struggling against Alexia was pointless, a fight he could not win. So Florentino sang. "Fuck it, I'll probably die anyway." He paused. "We were sent in by the government. We're prototypes. Bio-hazard Containment Security Force, a new military branch that reports directly to the Department of Defense. They want to replace the BSAA with us. Ashbury was supposed to be our first roll-out, but it's all gone to shit."

"Those weapons. Where did you get them?" she asked.

"I don't know. Military strikes contracts with suppliers. You want my opinion? Probably some fucking war dog."

"Tell me about HUNK. Why is he here?"

"I don't know. He's not one of us. He's mercenary, not soldier. Came with his own people. Repping someone else."

"He's repping Martin Bingham," said Alexia. "And his people are dead. I killed them."

"Shit, I don't know nothing about a Martin Bingham," said Florentino, wincing. "We were running a joint-op with HUNK and his fucking crew. Things got bad in Ashbury, and we hunkered down here in the radio station, hoping to get a signal out. Assholes put up jammers. I don't know what's going on, but pretty sure those asshole politicians left us out to dry. HUNK, he was our supplier. Came with the anti-B.O.W weapons—but fucking good that shit did us, because you're both still fucking alive."

"That's all I needed to know," said Alexia, making a small gesture with her hand. A tentacle snapped forward and speared Florentino right through the mouth, blood splattering the wall behind him.

The tentacle retreated with a wet noise, slick with blood, and disappeared out a window. There was a fist-sized hole where Florentino's mouth had been, which made him look like a specially grotesque blow-up doll. "That's gross," remarked Grayson aloud.

"Death is rarely pretty," said Alexia, turning toward him. "Feeling better, Grayson? Done being a cry-baby?"

"Yeah," he said, straightening. "I'm okay. Let's get the others up here."


	29. Part Two - Radio Contact

When Jill walked out of the elevator, she stopped, stared at the soldier bodies strewn across the ground. She made a face, toeing aside a shapeless piece of gore. "Nice job, Alexia," she said dryly. Then, to him, "Grayson, we find a working radio yet?"

A girl pushed past Jill, one of the survivors. She was sandy blonde, and had a forgettable face. Her clothes, a plaid shirt and jeans, were ripped and grimy. Grayson was sure her name was Hannah, former radio personality in the employ of AR BROADCASTING. Hannah said, "I can log us into the system. Long as those jammers are down, we can put a frequency out."

"Where's the video room?" asked Claire. "For the screen outside."

"Down this hall, through the door labeled Television," said Hannah, pointing, then pulling the visor of her baseball cap low over her eyes. "Jesus," she said, maneuvering around the dead soldiers. Grayson noticed the handgun stuffed in the waistband of her jeans, the grip slanted across the small of her back. "What a fucking a mess."

"You wanted in, so I got you in," said Alexia, folding her arms. There was an indignant air about her. "Be grateful. I never said it would be clean."

Hannah muttered something under her breath. Then she said aloud, "Yeah, thanks," and disappeared down the hall.

"I'll go with her," said Chris, starting after Hannah. "In case Ashford missed someone." He left.

Claire was inspecting Florentino's corpse, crouching on the toes of her shoes. She must have noticed his name-tag, and asked, "Raval? He wasn't related to a Rodrigo, was he?" Claire looked at Alexia.

"He _was_ ," said Alexia, a ghost of a smile on her face.

"Jesus, Alexia. Think you went a little too far," said Claire, looking back at Florentino. She frowned, stood up and wiped at the sweat and grime on her forehead. "There's nothing left of his face."

"It was either I killed him, or he killed me," said Alexia. "I don't need to justify myself to you, Claire."

"Not asking for justification. Just saying you went a little too hard," said Claire, and she brushed between them, heading in the direction Hannah had pointed. "I'm going to get the message out to survivors."

"Do you even know how to operate a camera?" asked Grayson. "It's not like one of those shitty throw-aways you pick up at the gift-shop."

"Can't be that hard," said Claire.

Veronica said, "I can help. I was in AV, and I was in charge of the Cinema Club."

"Cinema Club?" said Claire.

"Yeah, we used to shoot movies and stuff. Study cinematography, hard film-tech, that sort of thing."

"She gets that from you," muttered Alexia, looking sidelong at him.

"I know," he said. "Makes me proud."

"Well, okay," said Claire, and she walked away with Veronica. They were talking, though Grayson could not hear them. Claire threw an arm across Veronica's shoulders, and then they were gone.

"They're getting chummy." He didn't like that.

Alexia smiled and said, "It's all under control."

They went into the recording area, where Hannah was already at her setup. She was tapping something out on the computer, while Chris hung back by the window. From up here, Ashbury looked broken: an enormous machine, its various components vomiting smoke and fire into the thunderstorm-blue sky, the normal flow of things brought to a complete stand-still. He could see the Arklay mountains in the distance, dark purple-blue ghosts on the horizon. The entire city was dark now, excluding some places—city hall, casinos, the police station, places of important business, various government buildings—which ran on the precarious grace of auxiliary power. The TerraSave headquarters, one of the largest skyscrapers in Ashbury, still had power, the word TERRASAVE burning like a bright white star in the limbo-darkness.

Chris said, "I gotta piss. There a bathroom around here, Hannah?"

"Yeah," she said, without looking away from the screen. "Down the hall, to your left."

Chris left. It was Jill, Alexia, Hannah, and him inside the room. Grayson said to Jill, "You know the government's planning to cut the BSAA?" He looked at her, waiting for a reaction.

"Yeah?" said Jill, and she didn't sound surprised. She leaned sideways on the glass, watching the city below.

"Government wants to replace it with a unit called the Bio-hazard Containment Security Force," he said. "Those dead guys out in the hallway were prototypes. Any particular reason the feds want to see your people go down?" Grayson reached into his pocket for the Lucky Strikes, and lit one. He took off his sunglasses—Jill did not flinch, though Hannah did—and rubbed his eyes. "I thought the BSAA was their pet?"

"Same reason the government cuts funding to anything: we're not needed in the same capacity anymore, or we're too autonomous. If you want my opinion, I think it's the latter." She sat on the windowsill, bringing a leg up and hugging her knee. "We were initially started by the Pharmaceutical Consortium because the American government wanted people to go out and take care of bioweapons. But honestly, we're just another invasion force. I wanted to believe we were more, but Steve was right; we're pawns, government-backed stooges. The government didn't like my organization's autonomy. For the last couple of years, they've been trying to bring us to heel, consolidate our people as another American military branch. Chris and I have been fighting an uphill battle for years. I guess the feds finally got sick of it, so they took things into their own hands."

Alexia spoke. "You know this new group—the Bio-hazard Containment Security Force—is being supplied by Bingham? Seems the American government is up to its usual tricks: buying illegal arms from black market dealers and circulating it to their people, and terrorist groups in the Middle East. All to keep up this facade that they're 'helping' people." She shook her head. "Why I bloody hate Americans."

"Alexia," said Grayson. "You're technically an American now. You married an American. Your daughter is an American."

"Grayson, shut up," said Alexia.

"Just saying," he said, grinning.

"Let me rephrase: why I hate bloody American politicians," she said.

Jill sighed, running a hand through her damp hair. "Bingham is supplying them? I had a feeling."

"It's why HUNK is here," said Alexia. "We spoke to one of the soldiers—a man named Florentino Raval, former captain of the dead unit out in the hallway—and he said HUNK supplied their anti-B.O.W weapons. He also mentioned HUNK came with his own people."

"But why? If he was just doing a drop-off, why is HUNK still in Ashbury?" asked Jill. "He should have been long-gone by now." She paused, as if she had suddenly realized something. "Wait."

"What?" said Grayson.

"Back in Raccoon," said Jill, looking at them, "there was this guy named Nikolai Zinoviev. He was one of the Monitors, essentially part of Umbrella's secret police." She looked at Alexia expectantly.

"I'm aware of the group," said Alexia. Then she said, "You think HUNK is doing the same thing this Nikolai did? It would make sense."

"If it makes sense to you, then that's got to be it," said Grayson.

"Exactly," said Jill, nodding. "Bet you HUNK's collecting data for Bingham. You know anything about what Bingham might need the data for, Alexia?" She frowned. "And don't give me some vague bullshit answer like 'experiments', because I can figure that much out on my own."

"Experiments," said Alexia, and she smiled emptily.

"You know something," said Jill, getting up. She walked to Alexia and got real close, staring hard at her. "You're a real bitch, Alexia. You want Bingham, you'll tell me something." Her hand went to the rubber grip of the anti-B.O.W gun on her leg. "Or I'll shoot you, right here."

Grayson smiled to himself, because Jill hadn't changed at all; she was still hot-tempered, though her fuse was shorter now than he remembered. Age had made her impatient with bullshit, he supposed; but her threats were still empty ones. He knew Jill; she wouldn't kill Alexia unless she had to, because Jill didn't like killing people, and she had a soft spot for Veronica.

"I honestly don't know," said Alexia, shrugging. If she was lying, it was hard to tell; when circumstances called for it, Alexia could be a platinum liar. But Grayson knew it was bullshit. Alexia knew what Bingham wanted, because she'd told him so before. "I'm as in the dark about his motives as you are, Jill. The man's never made sense to me."

Jill bought Alexia's bullshit. She backed off, holstering the anti-B.O.W gun. "This fucking guy," she said, shaking her head. "Nothing about him makes sense. He's not about profit. Not about anything but making enough money to continue his operation."

"He likes tinkering a lot," said Grayson, shrugging. "It's an expensive hobby."

"Rewriting genetic sequences is not a fucking hobby," said Jill. She turned to Hannah. "Anything yet?"

"Think I got it," said Hannah, getting out of the chair at her jockey station. "Try tuning to the BSAA's frequency, Jill."

"Jesus, thank you. Steve came through," said Jill, and she sat down, working the jockey controls with Hannah's help.

A voice, though there was a bit of fuzz, came over the line. Grayson didn't recognize it. "Jill?" said the female voice. "Goddamn, I've been trying to ping you for hours."

Jill looked as if she was about to cry tears of joy. She said, "Left my equipment behind, Rebecca. Not by choice. What's the situation?"

"Military isn't letting the BSAA inside Ashbury," said the woman named Rebecca, her voice distorted by electric fuzz. "Barry's been trying to put together a rescue detail, but keeps getting stonewalled by the feds. Said if we flew one of our choppers inside the Ashbury perimeter, they'd shoot us down. It's a no-fly zone, and communication with the city was pretty much black; but I kept trying."

"They had jammers up. Bet you it was the military," said Jill.

"Makes sense," said Rebecca. "Had to be some powerful long-range jammers, too. Putting out some serious decibels with how much interference we kept picking up." She paused. "Brass is saying the whole infection started because of Alexia Ashford."

Alexia said, loud enough for Rebecca to hear, "I didn't do fucking shit to this city. What would I gain from infecting Ashbury?"

"Jill, Alexia is with you?"

"Yeah, Rebecca. Long story. Have you heard from Steve?"

"No. His channel's been black," said Rebecca. "Thought it might have been the jammers, but I just tried pinging him again. Nobody answered. Dead frequency."

"Shit," said Jill.

"Sorry, Jill."

"We'll worry about it later. Steve can take care of himself. Listen, can you get a BSAA chopper to meet us outside Ashbury? We're going to take a train out of the city; Alexia's going to get us on it."

Rebecca made an _ugh_ noise. "Like the Ecliptic Express?"

"Like the Ecliptic Express," said Jill, nodding.

"I'll talk to Barry. See if he can arrange something, Jill."

"Great," said Jill, grinning. "You get a bead on Bingham's lab yet, Rebecca?"

Before Rebecca could answer, the power suddenly went out, and they were sitting in the blue-dark of the jockey room. Jill started cursing in English, slapped the control panel in frustration, then cursed in Japanese. She stormed out of the room, probably to find Chris and tell him the situation, or because she needed someone to calm her down.

Grayson knew it was not dumb luck. Something dangerous lurked in the shadows. "I'm going to go check things out," he said. "Alexia, stay here."

"I'm going with you," she said.

"No, you're not," he said, gently pushing her down into the chair. "Stay. Keep an eye on Veronica." Grayson left.


	30. Part Two - Station Rumble

Grayson took the stairs down, because he did not feel comfortable with the elevator right now. One of his biggest fears was dying in an elevator—either suffocating from a lack of oxygen; getting caught in the door and ripped in half; crashing to his death, body smashing against the bottom of the shaft and vanishing in fire, in the reek of burnt electronics and rubber...

At least the stairs could not drop out from underneath him, or potentially explode. Grayson searched the darkness. His eyesight had changed drastically since his reanimation in Antarctica. Daylight was often difficult for him to cope with in its brightness, which was predominately, short of simple fashion taste, why Grayson wore sunglasses. In darkness, his eyes adjusted to the absence of light and became a sort of night-vision; it was not like looking through night-vision goggles—the world was not reduced to a matrix of bright green shapes—but grainy and low-lit, as if viewing the world through the lens of a Super 8 camera.

Though Grayson could see in the dark, he could not see on the thermal spectrum, which meant he was pretty much blind unless something was directly in front of him. And Grayson did not like that, because he could not see anything, but knew something was there.

Something moved in his periphery. Then threw him over the railing, with violent poltergeist force. Grayson grabbed the railing on the level below and swung into the staircase, smashing his knees against the ferroconcrete, pain oscillating in his kneecaps and spreading, reverberating in every nerve, and down into his bones.

HUNK appeared above him, smiling like a skull. Though it was only his head, floating there in the darkness. He said, "My suit's made of metamaterials, Grayson. Refracts light." Grayson had not noticed before, but saw it now: HUNK's suit flickered and vibrated within the matrix of its human frame, adjusting to the approximation of light—the color of the concrete, the dull sheen of the railing. "You should see your face." HUNK laughed, and the suit slowly reverted to its polycarbon black. He pulled the anti-B.O.W gun from its nylon holster and shot.

Grayson swung right, the fletchette grazing his cheek and cutting him there, which burned like a cat-scratch that had not quite penetrated the skin. Grayson heaved himself onto the landing and ducked underneath another fletchette, slamming his fist, as hard as he could, into HUNK's stomach. HUNK ragdolled and hit the wall, banging his head against the concrete with a wet visceral noise. "Should probably go back to wearing the fucking helmet," said Grayson. He got his hand around HUNK's neck and choked, until the points of his knuckles turned white.

HUNK stared at him with bulging pale eyes, gurgling, his face turning red. Something sharp and painful slipped between Grayson's ribs—it was the same knife that had practically disemboweled him back at O'Malley's—and made him drop HUNK, who vanished into the environment like a chameleon.

"You can't run forever!" shouted Grayson, rushing downstairs, taking two steps at a time.

There was no answer. He doubted HUNK was scared; HUNK was a professional, and as a professional, knew sound would give him away. Grayson was sure Bingham had probably told HUNK about his vision, and that he could not smell or hear much better than the average person.

A door banged open, and Grayson went through it. This particular floor seemed to consist entirely of offices and break-rooms. Now that he knew HUNK was wearing a camouflage suit, Grayson knew to look for subtle vibrations in the air, as if parts of reality had malfunctioned, and the pixels were flickering within the broken segments of space-time.

Grayson did not see anything. Then it struck him: HUNK was misleading him. Alexia was incapable of building an immunity to P-Epsilon like him, because she was not infected with his Wesker strain. HUNK could easily kill her, if he shot Alexia in just the right spot with enough of a payload, and Veronica would be a sitting duck. The others did not stand a chance. Jill and Chris were the only people who had military training among the survivors. But HUNK had been forged in Rockfort—a perfect product of Alfred's ruthless paramilitary program.

Grayson returned to the top floor. He heard Alexia shout, "Are you fucking kidding me? He's _invisible_ now?"

"Metamaterials," said Grayson, running toward her voice. "His suit's made of metamaterials."

"This is fucking bullshit," said Alexia, looking at him. "Bingham equipped HUNK with a fucking invisibility cloak?"

"Yeah, that's what I'm saying," said Grayson. He looked around. Hannah had been killed, and lay face-down in a pool of blood and brain, a hole in the back of her skull. A few other survivors had not been lucky either, and were spread out across the hall, their throats opened, or shot through the head. "Where's Veronica, Alexia?" he asked.

"She's with Claire, Jill, and the others. I told them to go into the bathroom and lock the door. No glass windows, like the offices, and there's only one way in." Alexia looked around, visibly nervous. "I've been fighting HUNK myself—or at least bloody trying to. But he keeps disappearing and reappearing like a fucking ghost."

"He appears when he attacks?" he asked.

"Yes," said Alexia. "I don't know why. Maybe the metamaterials can't properly render the sudden shift in movement, so they glitch, or he gets off on taunting people, or HUNK does it to conserve power—" she shook her head, hearing a thump somewhere—"Bloody hell, does it even matter, Alexia? You think too fucking much. Just keep your eyes open, Grayson."

He saw it then: the air rippled within a human shape, and Grayson glimpsed the knife. He pushed Alexia out of the way and moved, smashing his fist into the inside of HUNK's elbow, hearing a loud pop, the knife dropping to the geometric carpet. HUNK made a hurt noise; Grayson was pretty sure he had dislocated HUNK's elbow. HUNK stared at him, cold hate in his eyes, and confirmed Grayson's suspicion when he pushed the joint back into place, biting back a pain-howl.

"Best you fucking got?" said HUNK, through his teeth, a bit of spittle on his chin. "Got worse on Rockfort." He turned to Alexia and shot her, point-blank, in the leg. She crumpled, and was bleeding badly.

Alexia put pressure on the wound, her fingers turning red. The anti-B.O.W fletchette had embedded itself deep in her skin. "Hit my fucking femoral, I think," she said, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. Right now, the T-Veronica was probably kicking her immune system into full survival mode to stymie the P-Epsilon infection.

HUNK said, "She don't get that fletchette out soon, it's going to pump enough of a chemical payload into her blood to put down fucking Nemesis."

Then HUNK cursed, reaching behind him, a look of pure pain on his face. Jill stood behind HUNK, her fingers wrapped around the ribbed rubber hilt of her S.T.A.R.S knife, the serrated blade buried halfway between HUNK's shoulders. There were a few blood-flecks on her face. She left the knife there, and went to Alexia, dropping to her knees and gripping the fletchette. "Hold in there, Ashford. I'll get it out. Just stay quiet, and focus on not passing out."

HUNK flailed, and eventually got the knife out and tossed it, loudly cursing. While HUNK was distracted, Grayson rushed him and tackled the mercenary through a nearby window which overlooked the intersection. He watched HUNK fall. A noise, like a spring-loaded pop—a grappling cable wrapped around his ankle and pulled him out of the window. Grayson twisted around, gripping the edge of the window, feeling glass biting painfully into his palms, cool, rainy wind licking at his skin. His leg jerked, and his knee popped, and Grayson howled. Glass tinkled somewhere far below, and his leg jerked again; Grayson slid a little, finding it, between the pain, and the slickness of the rain, harder for him to hold on.

Then Jill grabbed his wrists, her fingers stained with blood. She said, "No, Grayson! You're not fucking dying like this. Not like one of your shitty action flicks." She pulled; but Grayson was heavier and bigger than her, and he did not move much.

"Jill, you're going to fall," said Grayson, and was surprised by his calmness, even though his leg hurt, even though Alexia might die, and he was cold and wet, and in so much pain. "I'll be fine. HUNK is still in the fucking building. Pretty sure I heard him swing through a window below."

"Yeah, well, if HUNK's smart, he'll run and take care of that wound I gave him," said Jill, digging her boot-heels into the floor and pulling, sliding a little. She heaved again, and somehow got him inside, belly-down in the broken glass.

He rolled over and popped his knee back into place, gasping, sharp pain resonating in his knee-cap in concentric patterns and slowly dissipating into a dull, annoying ache. "Thanks," said Grayson, the sweat cooling on his face. He stared out the window, at the dark storm-blue sky, watching the TERRASAVE logo burning white in the distance.

Jill kissed him and said, "Don't fucking do that again, you fucking idiot."

"You shouldn't kiss me," he said, closing his eyes.

"I know I shouldn't," she said, sitting beside him. "I'm only making it worse for myself."

"Alexia doesn't like sharing."

"We're not sharing," said Jill. "We're not together, Grayson."

"I know."

"I'm just working through some confusing feelings right now."

"I know. Thank you for saving me, Jill. I guess I owe you."

"You do," she said, looking at him.


	31. Part Two - An Intermission Crisis

HUNK never came back, and Grayson guessed he had gone to lick his wounds; though it wasn't the last time they would see the mercenary. Grayson knew HUNK too well. Not personally, but through things Alfred had told him, and through HUNK's reputation among the Umbrella brass and Rockfort paramilitary. The paramilitary had revered HUNK as a sort of demigod destined to ascend the hazardous climes of the illicit pharmaceutical Olympus (HUNK, it seemed, rarely operated outside the illegal pharmaceutical game) and overthrow its proverbial Zeus—whoever that unlucky proverbial Zeus was. And when HUNK was paid to do something, he did it, and would not stop until he had done it, and that was why HUNK had enjoyed such a long and lucrative career in the deadly for-hire biz.

They were cutting through St. Joseph's, Ashbury's largest cemetery, at the heart of the city. Ironically, a cemetery was the safest place during an outbreak; the T-Virus, or any of its variants, could not reanimate long-dead tissue, or so his impression had been when Alexia had explained it. The only dangers here were zombies who had strayed inside the wrought-iron fence, or grave-robbers who had taken advantage of the chaos and had decided to loot the mausoleums of the city's elite.

Alexia had been giving him the cold-shoulder since she'd recovered from her injury. Though she still walked with a slight limp, a constant pain weighing down her eyes. Veronica had noticed Alexia's coolness toward him. She kept looking at them, puzzled. Then Grayson would smile, mouth, "It's fine," and pretend that Alexia ignoring him did not bother him as much as it actually did.

Claire fell into step beside him. "You know, next time Veronica might not be so lucky, Grayson," she said, frowning. "If HUNK can turn invisible like that? We're SOL, Harman."

"He doesn't turn 'invisible'," said Grayson, staring at the back of Alexia's head. "It's metamaterials, Claire. Refracts light, and bends it a certain way to give the impression of invisibility. If you keep a close watch, you can see where the air distorts because of the suit. So just pay attention."

"Easy for you to say. You've got superpowers," said Claire.

"I can only see in the dark," said Grayson. "Not much of a superpower. I'm not like Legolas, who can see miles and miles away. I can't squint and say, 'They're taking the hobbits to Isengard'. My eyesight is only a little better than a normal person's 20/20."

Claire chuckled. "You sure love your film references."

"To be fair, Lord of the Rings was a book several years before the films."

"Yeah, but the movies turned that quote into a meme," said Claire. "Anyway, invisible or not, I still feel shitty about it. He could be tailing us right now, and we wouldn't know."

"HUNK knows when to retreat and re-plan," said Grayson. "He'll definitely be back, but I don't think he's in the immediate area."

Claire went quiet. Then she said, "Hey, Grayson? I'm sorry. About shooting you."

"What brought this on all of a sudden?"

"Because I turned you into what you are," said Claire, looking at him. "I made the conscious decision to pull that trigger and put a bullet in your head. I've been thinking a lot about it lately. Back then, I'd told myself you're not all that bad, that you're salvageable." She paused, shook her head. "No, wait. Salvageable implies something that sounds less than human. I saw you had the potential for goodness, but then you'd killed Steve..."

"You're rambling."

"Right. I guess what I mean to say is I think I read you right back then. I'm surprised. You and Alexia have cooperated with us. Jill's got that anti-B.O.W gun; but let's be real, we know you could easily kill us."

"I know we could," he said. "But what's the point? Even if we did kill you, it'd only make our situation harder. You know where Bingham is, and the BSAA might be the only shot Alexia has at getting out of a life-sentence in some prison camp." Grayson studied Alexia's back a moment, looking at the little rips and tears in her blazer, at the dark black spots of blood. She did not look at him once.

"I still find it hard to believe Alexia's married, and a mom," said Claire. "She isn't the same woman I remember from Antarctica. She's almost normal now. Like if you put her in a crowd, you wouldn't really be able to pick her out." She looked at him. "Why? I mean, why Alexia? Jill told me about how you—" Claire glanced at Chris, though Chris did not seem to be listening—"and her were together."

"I grew up with Alexia," he said. "She was a normal kid once. Relatively normal anyway, the whole prodigy thing aside."

"Hard to imagine her like that. What was it like growing up with the Ashfords?"

"Like growing up anywhere else, I guess," he said, and shrugged. He'd never really thought about it. "Comfortable. We were servants, dad and I, but the Ashfords treated us well. Like family."

"Was Alfred like that?" asked Claire, and seemed genuinely curious. "I mean, did he treat you guys well?"

"Alfred paid for my education. He also bought my dad a nice apartment in Hoboken. Even paid him a pension, up until his death. Alfred covered his medical expenses too, when my dad wasn't being stubborn, and would actually _see_ a doctor."

"I would have never guessed Alfred was like that."

"That television thing you were doing," said Grayson, shifting the subject. He still wasn't entirely comfortable talking about Alfred, at least not with Claire. "On the screen, back at AR Broadcasting. Did you ever get it through?"

Claire shook her head. "We got out a partial message. But then the power went down. Hopefully, someone saw it."

"HUNK sabotaged the auxiliary generator," he said.

"Yeah, kind of figured that." Claire looked between Alexia and him. "You both fighting?"

"I think so," he said.

"You think so?"

"She hasn't spoken to me since before I was pushed out the fucking window. Usually means she's pissed off."

They passed what appeared to have been a funeral. The black-lacquered casket was still above ground, covered in white lilies. There was a picture of a smiling brunette woman on the ground beside the casket. The sight dredged up some painful boyhood memories of Alexia's funeral in Beaconsfield; then it made him think about Clarence, and how Clarence did not have a casket, and had been left to rot, or be eaten, in the apartment bathroom. He fingered the crucifix in his pocket and stared at the hole in the ground, which had been flooded by rain-water.

Claire put a hand on his back and said, "You all right?"

He shrugged off her hand. "I'm okay," he lied, turning to the group. A good chunk of the survivors had been killed by HUNK, back at AR Broadcasting. There were several kids, not much younger than Veronica; a black man in a suit; a Korean woman who spoke very little English; a white woman with reddish hair, and her husband, a tall blonde. Grayson did not know any of their names, and did not really care what their names were. He looked at Jill and said, "We need to find a working car. Siphon some gas. The Umbrella plant, where the train is, is still too far away. We don't have much time."

"I've been thinking about it," said Jill.

Chris said, "Problem with a car is how congested the roads are. Lot of wrecks and zombies. But Harman's right. With HUNK tailing us like this, we don't have time. Besides, I don't want any more survivors to fucking die. It was my duty to protect the others, and I failed."

"So did I," said Jill, staring at him. "It was my job too, Chris."

"Yeah, I know, Jill." He kissed her. Then Chris sighed and hung his head, contemplative.

The black guy in the suit spoke. "There's a gas station not far from here," he said. "Could get gas there, maybe a car."

"Worth a shot," said Veronica. "Not like we got anything better going for us, dicking around in this fucking boneyard."

They left St. Joseph's and followed the black guy to the gas station, keeping away from the main roads, where the bulk of the infected had congregated. The guy seemed pretty familiar with the area; he navigated the alleyways without an issue. They stood across from the gas station now, its sign inert, several zombies shuffling aimlessly around the lot.

Chris, Claire, and Jill cleared out the zombies, while Alexia and him hung back, cleaning up whatever they'd missed. Once Grayson was sure the lot was secure, he told Jill to get the survivors inside. He said to Alexia, "You built a cryotank. Think you could figure out how to fix a car, if we need to? Because I don't know shit about automotive mechanics."

Ignoring his question, Alexia said, "You kissed Jill," and stared at him.

"You saw that, huh?" Grayson frowned. He knew this would eventually come, and had had a feeling since they'd left the radio station that was why Alexia was so pissed off. "I didn't kiss anyone, Alexia. She kissed me."

She slapped him, and it stung badly. "You're a real asshole, Grayson," snapped Alexia. "We've been married nearly twenty years—have known each other a hell of a lot longer—and you're cheating on me with an ex-girlfriend? An ex-girlfriend who you haven't seen since _fucking 1998_?"

"Alexia, I didn't kiss her," he said. " _She_ kissed _me_."

"What would your daughter think? You're a bloody pig, Grayson. I should have killed you back in Antarctica!"

"You don't actually mean that," he said.

Alexia went silent. Her expression became strange, as if a mist had suddenly diffused her features, like an emotional portrait slightly out of focus. She smacked him in the chest, and her eyes became pink and wet. "I've given you bloody everything," she half-whined. "I've given you a daughter. I've given you friendship. I've given you myself, and this is how you repay me, Grayson?"

There was an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. Though the tears would never actually come. "I love you," he said, and meant it. "Now knock it off. You're an ugly crier."

She half laughed, half hiccuped. He tightly hugged Alexia and glanced at the station, where Jill watched them from the doorway. "You're an asshole," Alexia mumbled, face buried in his shirt.

"I know," he said, and kissed the top of her head.


	32. Part Two - Hunkering Down

Alexia still looked a bit sick, but assured him she was okay. Grayson took a walk around the station. The area they stood in had a register, a counter, and a row of flimsy plastic chairs underneath dirty window-slats. It was a service station, so there were no drink coolers or food. There was a cork-board opposite the counter, where several advertisements were pinned: CAR SHOW, SATURDAY. AL'S DISCOUNT PLUMBING. CHURCH FUNDRAISER THIS SUNDAY. KITTENS IN NEED OF GOOD HOME. CALL STACY IF INTERESTED.

Chris, Jill, Claire, and the black guy piled stuff in front of the door—whatever had not been bolted down. They would need to hunker down for a while. They needed a working car. And the survivors were beginning to complain about their pains and woes. Grayson wanted to tell them to suck it up, but decided against it. He needed to keep his head on straight, in the event HUNK showed up, and a bunch of crying kids and adults would not be conducive to that necessary focus.

He checked the garage, which adjoined the service lobby and was back behind a blue-painted fire door. Alexia was already in there, and still did not look particularly well. She was rooting around the engine of a red SUV, holding a flashlight between her teeth. The air stunk of oil and grease, and old concrete. Grayson said, "Any luck? That car usable?"

She took the flashlight out of her mouth and balanced it carefully between the hood prop and the windshield. "I don't fucking know yet," said Alexia, in usual short temper. Her fingers were black with oil, and some had gotten on her cheeks. There was a film of sweat on her forehead, because the garage was unbearably hot. "I don't know anything about stupid cars. The mechanics aren't too difficult; but I'm still not familiar enough with car engines to say whether or not we can drive this thing."

"Seeing you working on a car is fucking hilarious," said Grayson, grinning. He walked behind Alexia and checked the locks on the corrugated garage shutter. Seemed secure enough, he decided; at least, once the station was properly fortified, they would not really have to worry about zombies getting inside. Though the zombies were honestly the least of his concerns; it was HUNK who Grayson was worried about.

"Glad I'm entertaining you," said Alexia dryly. There was a flaking red toolbox opened by her feet. She reached down and fished out a wrench. Then said, without looking at him, "You and Jill."

"You don't have to worry about it, Alexia. The kiss meant nothing."

"Are you certain?" Alexia stopped doing whatever she was doing to the engine, and looked at him. A mild pain pinched her features, as if she was nursing the tail-end of a bad hangover; but she otherwise seemed okay. The flashlight clattered to the ground—it was one of those stainless steel ones—and Alexia said, "Would you bloody come over here and hold this fucking flashlight for me? I can't see shit, Grayson."

He scooped the flashlight up and pointed the beam at the engine. Motes of dust wheeled in the light. "To answer your question," he said, watching Alexia's hands clumsily maneuvering the engine's various tubes and pieces, "I am certain. It didn't mean anything, Alexia. Jill's the one who needs to sort her shit out."

Alexia stopped working and looked at him again, as though she did not quite believe him.

"It was over twenty years ago," he said, shining the light in her face.

She screwed her eyes against the light, said, "Point it at the engine, not me," and when Grayson did, Alexia went back to familiarizing herself with the car. She wiped her forehead on the back of her wrist, smudging oil there. "I'm not going to lose you to that slutty cop. You're _mine_." The way Alexia had said _mine_ made him sound like property, but it honestly didn't bother Grayson. Alexia viewed everything in terms of ownership: if she did not own it, she did not care about it; if she did own it, it was all that mattered to her; and if she wanted to own it, Alexia would take it, and there was fuck-all that could be done about it.

"Yours, huh?" he said.

"Mine," she repeated, and she kissed him. "I have plans. This little alliance is only a means to an end. I don't give a bloody fuck about those people." Alexia paused and fiddled with something. Then, "Shine the light over here, Grayson. Please."

He did. "Look at you. A straight-up greaser."

"Call me that one more time, and I'll kick you in the balls."

"Don't threaten me with a good time, Alexia."

Alexia smeared oil on his face and laughed. Then she kissed him again, hungrily, her fingers brushing across his neck, probably leaving black lines there. Grayson wrapped his arm around her waist and sucked at her mouth, pushing his tongue between her teeth and pinning Alexia against the bumper, his knee between her legs.

Then someone asked, "Should I come back later?" Claire stood in the doorway, staring.

Veronica stood beside Claire, a sour look on her face. "Gross."

"How do you think you came into being, Veronica? Stork sure as hell didn't drop you off," said Grayson, letting Alexia go.

"Okay. I know you guys have sex, but it's something I can live without ever seeing," said Veronica.

"What do you both want?" asked Alexia stiffly, fixing her shirt, which had gone askew at some point, and had shown a slight hint of white bra-lace.

"Jill and Chris are busy strategizing our food and water issue. The kids are getting hungry," said Claire, right to business. "I also figured you'd need help with the car."

"Yeah, we do," said Grayson. He was pretty sure that, if he left Alexia to work on the car, they'd wind up with some sort of weapon of mass destruction, and not a way out of the city.

"Dad used to be big into cars, and I mess around with them in my free-time. Hobby, you know?" Claire pushed Alexia aside and told him to direct the flashlight at the engine, and Grayson did. Claire dug around the engine a bit, then she said, "Engine's in pretty rough shape. I'm gonna have to run a few tests. Probably something stupid like the battery, or the alternator. Maybe a belt's going. Hopefully—" she paused, sliding out a dip-stick and looking it over—"it's nothing serious, like the fucking transmission."

Alexia said, "If you give me some bloody time with this thing, I'm sure I can fix it. I built a cryotank."

"You probably could, Alexia," said Claire, looking at her. "But we don't have time for you to puzzle this shit out." She shook her head, and said, "Typical rich girl. Bet when stuff breaks down, you just take it to a mechanic. Must be nice to have all that disposable income."

"It really is nice," said Alexia.

Claire frowned, and said, "Yeah, well, most of us don't have a couple of grand to toss to some sketchy dude in oil-stained coveralls."

"Never struck me as a car person," said Grayson, looking at Claire.

"I used to ride motorcycles," said Claire. "And like I said, my dad was into cars. We grew up in a small Midwestern town, not too far from Raccoon. Had a few acres. Family's pretty much comprised of rednecks, see. Dad used to have all sorts of old cars sitting around the house, and he'd work on them every Sunday, his only day-off, and I'd help him. It was our way of bonding."

"What happened to him?" asked Veronica, who was sitting on a box and watching Claire.

"Died from a hemorrhage," said Claire.

"Sorry," said Veronica.

"It's fine. It was a long time ago, Veronica."

"Guess we'll leave you to work, Claire," said Grayson.

"Sure." Claire looked over at Veronica. "Veronica, you mind holding that flashlight for me?" she asked. "I'll teach you something about cars."

Grayson passed the flashlight to Veronica, who said, "Please don't let me find mom and you like that again," and went over to Claire.

Alexia and him stepped out of the garage. The survivors were tired and spread out across the service lobby, curled on the floor and trying to sleep, or trying to sleep in one of the uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs. They must have been in a bad neighborhood, because there were security shutters on the windows, and someone had pulled them down, which made Grayson happy, because that meant HUNK could not surprise them. The place was tomb-silent; though a zombie would occasionally moan, and would smack or rattle the window-shutters because it sensed the fresh people-meat beyond the walls.

Alexia said, "It's pitch-black in here. I can't see anything."

Grayson grabbed her hand. "I can help," he said, and led her away to a vacant corner of the lobby. He sat her down. "You still don't look too good, Alexia. You sure you're all right?" The worry had been nagging him.

"I'm fine," she said. "Sit down with me, Grayson."

Grayson sat down. "Think we're ever going to catch Bingham?" he asked.

She laid her head on his shoulder and said, "We will. He has my research."

"You really think Jill and the others will let you keep it?"

"No, but I'd like to see them try and keep it from me."

"You've got an angle in this, Alexia. What's the plan?"

"Grayson, I love you, and I'll tell you when you need to know."

"I hate this ambiguous shit."

"Get used to it, Grayson."

He sighed. "You're a pain in the fucking ass, Alexia."

"And yet you're still here with me."

Grayson smiled, bringing his legs up and resting his arms on his knees. Then Alexia fell asleep, and so did he.


	33. Part Two - Shopping

Grayson did not sleep long. Since he had been infected, sleep had become a less integral part to his routine. He averaged maybe four hours a night, sometimes three, and that was usually enough to keep him moving. Getting up (after he had carefully disentangled himself from Alexia), Grayson went back to the garage and found Claire inside, still fiddling with the car, flashlight between her teeth, her arms covered in grease to the elbow. Veronica had gone to sleep on a pallet in the corner of the garage, where she had cobbled together a makeshift bed from some bubble-wrap, plastic tarp, and a mechanic's blue suit, which she had rolled into a pillow.

"Any luck?" he said.

Claire jumped and banged her head on the hood. "Jesus fucking Christ, don't sneak up on me like that," she said, rubbing the back of her head. She looked at him, wiping her hands on a dirty hand-towel. "Battery's shot. Also had to patch up some of the hoses because they were leaking, and one of the clamps were bad, so I had to replace it. Car's in rough shape, but not impossible to fix. Biggest issue is the battery right now."

"It's a service station. Don't they have fucking batteries lying around?"

"They have to order the parts, Grayson. I checked. No batteries."

"So what do we do?"

"You really don't know shit about cars, do you?" Claire laughed. "Jesus, you and Alexia are impossible. We need another battery."

"I don't know how to take a battery out of a car," he said.

"Man. How did you ever survive on your own, Grayson?"

"Clancy used to fix my car for me. I'd throw him a couple of bucks for the trouble. For bigger problems, I'd send it to the mechanic, and Alfred would pay the bill."

Claire shook her head.

"I was a butler, not a mechanic. Mechanic wasn't in my job description."

"Well, whatever. Straight to the point, we need another battery," said Claire, returning to work, the sounds of things jangling and clunking filling the garage. She took a wrench from the toolbox by her feet, then disappeared under the hood again. "There might be an auto-shop nearby. Chris wants to go out and find some food and water for the survivors. Maybe you both could take a look."

"Why can't Jill go with him?"

"Jill's the only other person here with BSAA training," said Claire. "Smarter to keep her near the survivors."

"Then Jill and I can go, and Chris can stay behind," he said.

"Nope." Chris appeared, and used a key to unlock the padlock to the garage shutter. He jimmied it up, just enough that they could duck underneath it. "You're coming with me, Harman. Let's go." Then he went outside.

"I don't feel like going anywhere with you," said Grayson.

Chris poked his head under the shutter and said, "I don't give a _fuck_ what you want. Let's go."

Grayson went, mostly because he wanted to keep the peace until they reached Bingham. That, and if Alexia and him continued to cooperate, they could maybe parley a deal for Alexia with the BSAA and the feds—though that assumed the BSAA wasn't replaced by the B.C.S.F, by the time they got out of Ashbury. At this point, Grayson really wasn't sure how things would go; it was all very precarious.

It wasn't raining, but there was a dense early morning mist. The sky was a pale blue streaked with pink, and it would have been beautiful if they were not in the middle of an outbreak. He wondered why the government had not blown Ashbury off the map yet. Grayson supposed they did not want to stir too much shit, because the election season right now was volatile, and there was a lot of political unrest across the board—riots, anti-government militias, race wars—and the two presidential candidates were both pieces of shit with rap-sheets longer than his arm, which did not lend favorably to the environment, nor did it make the feds look very good in the eyes of the enlightened peasantry. That, and if the government dropped a bomb on the city after the details of the Raccoon Incident had finally come to light, the United States would further destroy what little friendly foreign relations they still enjoyed. It would bring total condemnation down on their heads from every sovereign nation, on the same level of North Korea suddenly dropping a bomb on New York.

He trailed Chris past the gas-pumps, and out onto the road. A few zombies stumbled toward them, but they did not waste the effort and ammunition, and simply out-walked them, turning into an alleyway between an electronic shop called TED'S DISCOUNTS, and a Starbucks.

"Any particular reason you're insisting I come with you?" asked Grayson, as they passed the gutted wreckage of a Camry, its axles resting on cinder-blocks. "Seems a little stupid. I could kill you out here, Chris. Tell everyone you got eaten by zombies."

Chris stopped walking, and looked at him. He clutched a rifle, which he had looted several hours before from a cop cruiser, finger on the trigger, and the barrel pointed down at the road. "Cut the tough shit," he said. "You're not Albert Wesker, Grayson. No matter how bad you want to be."

"Implying I want to be Albert Wesker," said Grayson.

Chris shook his head and laughed. He licked his lips, then looked at him. Chris had a weathered, hard face, dirty with grime and sweat. There was a heaviness in his eyes which said: _I have seen some shit_. "Don't even give me that shit," he said. "Look at you. Parading around in black. Sunglasses. Styling your hair like that. You want to be Albert Wesker, and you hate the fucking fact that you never will be."

Grayson did not say anything, because he had not expected those words to hit him like they did. He brushed it off, said, "You seem a little tense, Chris," and smiled meaninglessly.

Chris shoved him against a wall, the stone cool and rough through the fabric of his blazer. This close, Grayson smelled the stale sweat on Chris's clothes, and the old damp. "I brought you out here because Jill needs to stay behind and watch the survivors. Claire's busy with the car. And I trust Alexia even less than I fucking trust you, asshole." Chris stared him dead in the eyes, unblinking. If it was one thing Grayson could commend Chris on, it was his steely confidence. "Besides," said Chris, "I killed Albert. And I'll kill you too, you try anything."

"Sure you didn't just bring me out here because of Jill?" said Grayson.

"Keep her name out of your fucking mouth," said Chris.

"That jealousy I hear, Chris?"

Chris punched him, so hard Grayson heard the thud of his knuckles connecting with his flesh. Grayson went sideways and hit the asphalt, splashing in a flooded pot-hole. He lifted himself on his arm and rubbed his sore jaw. "At the end of the day, I know Jill loves me," said Chris. "Now get the fuck up, Harman. We need to find a battery, and some food and water."

"Fine," said Grayson, climbing to his feet.

"You were fishing for a rise, and you got it," said Chris, and they walked.

They heard gunshots. Grayson peeked around the corner and saw a few survivors in a gun-fight with some B.C.S.F guys. The survivors, ill-equipped to deal with automatics and spooks in Kevlar, were quickly wiped out in a spray of blood. Chris had almost rushed out to save them, but Grayson had yanked him back and reminded him that they could not save everyone, and, right now, needed to focus on their group, to which Chris reluctantly agreed, pain in his eyes.

The B.C.S.F moved on, vanishing down a street, leaving a swath of bullet-riddled corpses on the blacktop. They stepped over the bodies. Each survivor had been expertly shot through the head, and occasionally Grayson would step into a gob of brain, or some unidentifiable fleshy piece of human meat. "Keep your eyes open," said Grayson. "If the B.C.S.F is around, HUNK might be too."

"Jill said he was mercenary, not one of those B.C.S.F guys," said Chris.

"He is. But he's also their supplier, and HUNK's working with them in some other capacity. But I have no idea what that capacity is."

"Think it's got something to do with Bingham, Harman?"

"Undoubtedly," said Grayson. "Bingham's planning something huge, and it involves the feds."

"Great. Terrorist working with the government."

"When has that ever not been the case?" said Grayson, laughing.

They did not see any other B.C.S.F guys, though Grayson could still hear their automatics in the distance. They walked two city-blocks, and eventually located a corner-store, where Chris insisted they stop so they could gather some food for the survivors back at the gas station. The door was locked. Grayson punched the glass door and shattered it, and they stepped inside. He half-expected an alarm to go off; but nothing happened, which was fine with him, because it meant less of a hassle. "I'll loop around the store and check it out," he said to Chris, who was piling protein bars, chips, and other bagged snacks, and bottles of water, into one of those reusable bags, which the store had sold on a rack near the counter.

"If there are zombies in here, they would've heard the glass," said Chris, finishing with the first bag, then filling a second. "If there were survivors, they would've probably attacked us by now."

"Still going to check it out," said Grayson, and he went to check it out, mostly because he wanted to get away from Chris for a while. There was something intolerable about him. It was his demeanor maybe, his general being; Chris carried himself like a soldier with an unwarranted hero complex, as if him being there was some kind of favor to everyone else. Grayson had often seen the type in various public places—fresh from the Middle East, and believing everyone somehow owed their freedom to them because they wore a military uniform. "You're just some rich guy's pawn in a resource war, asshole," he said aloud, scoping out the backroom. "Congratulations."

The backroom was typical. There were shelves of cardboard boxes, where the store kept their back-stock of items. On his right was a door that led into the cooler, and on his left was a short hallway, a door at the end of it. The door was open, and Grayson went inside.

The stench of something rotten assaulted his nostrils. There was a guy back here in a rolling chair, in front of an inert computer monitor, his head blown open, most of it splattered on the wall behind him. A gun sat on the desk; the clip was empty, and even if it had not been empty, Grayson did not like guns because he did not need them. "Guess someone figured they'd never get out of Ashbury," he said, pushing the corpse aside and checking the desk for things. Grayson wasn't sure what he was looking for, but figured it gave him a reason to be back here, and kept him away from Chris for a little while longer. He found some ammunition for the handgun at the bottom of a drawer, under a stack of invoices. Deciding to take the gun and bullets, Grayson returned to Chris, who had finished packing out his bags, and had the straps slung across his chest in an X-shape, the bags on his back.

"Here," said Grayson, handing Chris the gun, and the ammunition. "Found this in the back. Never too many guns, right?"

"Why don't you hold onto it, Harman?" said Chris, taking the gun. He seemed confused, as if he could not figure why someone, in present circumstances, would not take it.

"I don't like guns. Not because I'm anti-gun, or anything. I prefer killing with my hands. Or a knife."

"You're a goddamn psychopath," said Chris, tucking the gun into the waistband of his fatigues.

"Yeah, I hear that a lot."

"Anything else back there?"

"A dead guy who blew his own brains out. Other than that? Nope."

"Great," said Chris, and they left.

They made their way down the street. About a block away, they found a shop that sold automotive parts, a nondescript place of white-painted concrete. It was called O'ROURKE'S AUTOMOTIVE. A flurry of advertisements for various part manufacturers were displayed in the windows, which were framed by blue neon, and covered in a patina of finger-smudges. The door had bars on it. Grayson ripped them out and tossed the crumpled steel lattice onto the sidewalk, tearing off the knob and shoving the door open.

Both of them were greeted with the business-end of a shotgun, held by an old man in a cowboy hat, a feather in the band. His beard was like steel wool, and his hair was long, past his shoulders, which he wore braided. Grayson figured the guy probably had some Native American in him, by his looks. He was tall and thin, and his face was tanned and angular, eyes a deep earthy brown.

"Don't know how you fucking did it, but you just ripped out my only goddamn protection against those goddamn zombies." The man's clothes were old and worn, a plaid shirt and jeans, the denim threadbare around the knees.

"Figured you'd be dead like everyone else," said Grayson. "We need a car battery."

The man shot Grayson. The bullet ripped through his stomach, but Grayson did not go down, and barely felt any pain. The man gawked and made unintelligible noises, as the flesh slowly knitted back together. The old man said, "What the fuck are you, boy?"

Grayson snapped the man's neck, then, just because the guy had pissed him off, blew his head into a red smear with the shotgun. He broke the gun in half and tossed the pieces aside, stepping over the old man's corpse. "So let's find that car battery, Chris."

"You just fucking murdered him," said Chris, pointing the rifle at him now. "Just like that."

Grayson pushed the rifle away from his face and stared at Chris. "Guy just blew my stomach open with a shotgun, and it didn't do shit. You think you're going to fare any better?" He turned around and started to browse the shelves. There were boxes and boxes of stuff, and Grayson wasn't really sure what he was looking for, but figured it would click when he saw it. "Now help me find this fucking battery, Redfield."


	34. Part Three - Building Rapport

Chris helped him sort through the boxes, but did not talk at all. By now, the old man's body smelled nauseatingly ripe, and a few flies hovered around the corpse, probably laying eggs in the congealing ruin of the guy's skull. He had seen maggots once, in some old rice Alexia and him had forgotten about in their cupboard, and since then Grayson had never wanted to see another maggot. Insects did not bother him, but there was something about the way maggots wriggled, and how comfortable they were turning someone's open wound into a fucking condo, which grossed him out.

Chris finally spoke. "Here," he said, unpacking a box. He took out the bubble-wrap and foam, then the battery, and inspected it. "Size 65. Good. This is what we need for the SUV." He packed it back into the box and handed the package to Grayson. "You're carrying this, Harman. I've got my hands full with the food."

"Stop looking at me like that," said Grayson, tucking the package under his arm. "Guy shot me. Deserved what he got."

"You murdered a man, Harman."

"Guy should've learned to pick his battles better," said Grayson dismissively, heading toward the door. It was raining again. He peeked outside, saw a few zombies in the immediate area, but they were busy dining on a fat homeless guy's remains.

"He couldn't do shit to you," said Chris. "And you killed him anyway."

"He pissed me off."

"You kill everyone who pisses you off?"

Grayson looked back at Chris. "Don't you?"

Chris shoved him aside and said, "Don't compare me to you."

They walked the entire way back to the gas station in silence, excluding the couple of skirmishes they got into with the infected who, by now, had lost their scariness (not that they had ever really scared Grayson, as long as they were not in herds) and had more or less become parts of the urban environment—no different than a bus stop, a streetlight, or a hydrant—or an amusing novelty (Grayson observed one zombie repeatedly walk into a wall, and another flopping around on the tarmac like a dying fish, because it had lost its leg).

They reached the gas station and were greeted by Jill, who came out from under the garage shutter and took the bags from Chris. They went inside, and Jill started to pass the items around to the survivors, who tore into the food and water like rabid starving animals. Claire took the battery from Grayson, said, "I'll get to installing this right now," and told them they had done good work. There were dark crescents under Claire's eyes; Grayson guessed she had not slept at all, in the time they were gone.

Alexia stood inside the lobby, and looked a little better than before; but there were still subtle shades of pain in her face. "Did you find a battery?" she asked, leaning against the service counter. Grayson told her they did, and that Claire was installing it. "Good," said Alexia, and she kissed his cheek. Her thumb brushed something away from the corner of his mouth, and Alexia inspected it. "Blood? Chris didn't hurt you, did he?"

"There was this old guy at the parts shop. Killed him. Shot me in the stomach with his shotgun, but I'm okay."

Alexia nodded, wiping her hand on her pant-leg. "His blood," she said.

"Yeah," said Grayson. "His blood."

Jill came over without a word and shoved two bottled waters, and a couple of protein bars, into Alexia's hands. "Here," she said, and went away.

"What crawled up her ass and died?" said Alexia, tearing the foil from one of the bars.

She offered Grayson some, and he bit it, chewing. It had the consistency of foam, and tasted only vaguely like peanut butter. "Her hopes and dreams," he said finally, around a mouthful of mealy protein bar. He uncapped his water and guzzled it.

Alexia smiled and sipped her water, and took a small bite of her bar. Even as thirsty and hungry as Alexia undoubtedly was, she always managed to eat and drink with inhuman grace. Alfred had been like that too; dining had always been an art for the twins. When her mouth was no longer full, Alexia said, "I personally can't wait until we get out of here."

"The city, or the group?"

"Both," said Alexia dryly. "Schmoozing the good guys is beginning to lose its novelty, Grayson."

"Just have to hold over for a little while longer, Alexia."

"I know. It's simply difficult."

"Bingham is difficult. Don't know what you expected," said Grayson.

A few hours passed, and Claire announced she had finished the car. Her clothes were stained with oil and grease, the reek of which was compounded by the crampedness of the vehicle. It was a tight squeeze, but they made it work.

Jill turned the ignition on; the radio suddenly blared the crescendo of _Bohemian Rhapsody_ , and nearly blew Grayson's ears out, because the speaker was right behind his head. Jill turned the radio off and drove into the rainy morning—the sounds of bones breaking against the hood, meat squelching under the tires. She was surprisingly good at maneuvering around the wrecks, swerving between the dead cars and larger herds of zombies with the smooth precision of a stunt driver. Occasionally Jill would fish-tail around tighter turns, and at one point had hydroplaned when she'd gone too heavy on the acceleration; but she always managed to regain control and keep the car from rolling.

Though it wasn't as tight a fit back here (the SUV had three rows of seats, and they sat behind the third row, in a little space which had probably been used for storage), the truck bed jounced every time they hit a zombie and tossed them like popcorn. It was like riding a bus; the back was always the roughest ride, and it was one of those things a person either loved or hated. Grayson personally loved it, but Alexia hated it because she was prone to bouts of motion sickness.

Claire sat across from them. She had a photograph between her thumb and finger. "Was this your wedding?" she asked, showing them the picture. It had been taken on the beach in St. Croix. Alexia and him wore white in the photograph, and they were smiling. The picture made the experience look better than it actually had been; Grayson had had three hours of sleep, and Alexia had had sun-poisoning on her back when the picture was taken. They had not even wanted the picture; the guy who'd married them had been very insistent about the photo.

"How did you get that?" said Alexia, snatching the photograph from Claire and tucking it back inside her wallet. She glowered and slipped the wallet into the back pocket of her dirty jeans.

"Probably fell out when we hit a bump," suggested Grayson. Then, to Claire, "But yeah, that was our wedding in St. Croix."

"St. Croix. Must've been nice," said Claire, conversationally.

"If you like sun-poisoning," said Alexia.

"Steve and I were going to go to Hawaii before your brother fucked it all up," said Claire.

Alexia stared at her. "Well, I suppose you don't have to worry about him 'fucking up' anything else, Redfield," she said. "You murdered Alfred."

"He tried to murder us," said Claire.

Alexia did not reply.

"And you killed Steve."

"Steve isn't dead anymore," said Alexia. "Alfred, however, is."

This time, Claire did not say anything.

"You've deprived me of a brother," said Alexia measuredly. "You've deprived Veronica of an uncle who would have undoubtedly loved and doted on her. And you've deprived Grayson of his close friend."

"I didn't have a choice, Alexia!" snapped Claire. "He was going to kill us. Kill, or be killed. I'm not sorry he's dead. Alfred was dangerous. And I'm _especially_ not sorry to you, you psychopathic bitch." She paused, her expression cooling. "Sorry," added Claire, her tone a little easier now. "That's not really fair, I guess. You've been cooperating with us. I'm just exhausted, and worried sick about Steve."

"He's probably dead," said Alexia, in her usual cold way. "Best to warm yourself to the idea, Claire. HUNK is around, and the B.C.S.F is swarming the bloody city and killing everyone who doesn't wear their uniform."

"How do you fucking do it, Alexia?"

"Do what?"

"Be so goddamn cold," said Claire.

"I'm simply a realist, Claire," said Alexia. "Odds aren't in Steve's favor."

"You're not a realist. You're a pessimist with fatalistic shades."

Grayson decided to abstain from the discussion. He was more interested in watching their dynamic anyway, and did not really want to inject himself into the dialog because this was business exclusive to Alexia and Claire. Grayson realized, and accepted wholly, he had always been a tangential character in their conflict.

Veronica sat beside him, and had been watching the exchange with mild interest.

"Look around you," said Alexia. "Ashbury is gone. Survivors are being killed by the B.C.S.F. You heard HUNK say so at O'Malley's, didn't you? The variables are not in Steve's favor, Claire. The sooner you realize that, the better off you'll be."

"What if it was Grayson, Alexia?" said Claire. "Could you just brush it off like that?"

"Grayson wouldn't be stupid enough to put himself into that sort of position."

"I beg to differ," he chimed. "I've done some pretty stupid things, Alexia."

Claire ignored him. She said to Alexia, "That doesn't answer my question, Alexia."

"You're simply trying to deflect the discussion, Claire. Did I hit a sore spot?"

"Alexia, why the hell do you do this shit?" said Claire suddenly. "You intentionally try to piss people off. Maybe you just don't want to talk about it because you know you'd be exactly like me, if it was Grayson out there. And you're just too proud to admit it. Too obsessed with this ice queen routine of yours."

"It isn't a routine, Claire. It's how I am."

"Why? Why are all you Umbrella scientists psycho?" said Claire. "Is it in your contracts or something? Birkin was the same way, the way Sherry described him. I never met him personally. Not as the Birkin you knew, anyway."

"What happened to Birkin?" asked Alexia. "The specifics, I mean."

"Mutated," said Claire, shrugging. She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. "He was experimenting with the G-Virus, and there was an accidental spill. You probably already knew that part, though. But specifics? He didn't look like a man anymore. There was nothing actually left of William Birkin, as you knew him. He was just another one of your company's mindless fucking bioweapons."

"That's what Birkin gets for thinking he could tap into Bingham's virus without the proper help and guidance."

"Bingham's virus?" said Claire. "The thing Grayson's infected with."

"What strain did you think Birkin based his G-Virus research on?" said Alexia. "When I was a girl and working with Umbrella, I briefly consulted with Wesker and Birkin about the virus. Birkin was beginning his preliminary G-Virus research back in 1983, based on a modified strain of Bingham's 'Wesker virus'."

"You worked with William Birkin?" said Claire. "Sherry never mentioned that."

"She wouldn't. It was years before her time, and I doubt Birkin would ever admit to working with me." Alexia smiled meaninglessly. "I also knew Annette when she was just a lab assistant. Funny story, the woman idolized me. She did her dissertation on one of my treatises. Synthetic beneficial mutagens, I think. Another funny story? Annette was Clarence's aunt, and Sherry is his cousin."

"That junky guy who—" Claire stopped herself, when she caught the look Grayson had thrown her way. "That guy from before? Seriously? Sherry mentioned something about a cousin last I talked to her, but never gave a name."

"Mind if we don't talk about Clancy?" said Grayson, fingering the crucifix in his pocket. "It's bad form to talk shit about the dead."

Claire said, "Sorry," and said nothing else.


	35. Part Three - Strategizing

The Umbrella plant had been abandoned since 2004, when the Raccoon Trials had put the final nail in the company's coffin. It was a crumbling industrial park now, the asphalt tufted with dead grass. An old fiberglass sign sat out front of the building, outside the inert electrified chain-link perimeter, which depicted the Umbrella hexagon in faded decal, and the company's motto: PRESERVING THE HEALTH OF THE PEOPLE.

They drove past an ancient guardhouse, and through the broken gate. A few zombies had spilled into the vacant lot of the industrial park, shuffling stupidly in the rain. Jill drove through a throng of infected—the truck-bed jounced, and Grayson nearly smacked his head on the ceiling—and parked the car under a dead streetlight. Grayson hit the latch and opened the back door, climbing out and helping Alexia outside, who was presently getting over a mild case of motion sickness.

The black guy in the suit looked at Alexia and asked, "She gonna be okay?"

"I'm going to be fine," said Alexia.

"The train's here?" said Claire, staring at the ruins. She looked at Alexia, hands on her hips. "Looks like nobody's been around for a long time." There was something in Claire's tone which implied skepticism.

"It's not a trap," said Alexia. "I bought the property a little over a decade ago."

"You own this place?" asked Jill.

"I do," said Alexia.

"Nobody found it weird to see a bunch of scientists coming in and out of an abandoned building?" said Jill, with a skeptical look.

"I bought out the city politicians. They turned a blind eye." Alexia did not mention she'd killed the former mayor of Ashbury because he had not wanted to play her game (though Grayson had done the actual killing; Alexia had just given him the order) and had funded his young and infinitely corrupt successor's election campaign, which had effectively dropped Ashbury into her pocket because the guy had owed Alexia for the win, and had enjoyed fat kickbacks from the revenue generated by the black clinics.

The building itself was typical of a corporate office: all glass and concrete, and the lobby was huge with chipped white, black, and red marble tiles arranged in the pattern of the Umbrella hexagon. There was a reception desk opposite the entrance, flanked by two black-lacquered doors. They went through the door on the right. It opened into a long corridor lined with doors, either offices or labs, but Grayson could not be sure. He only vaguely remembered the one time he had ridden the train, and nothing much at all about the building.

"Man, brings back some unpleasant memories," said Chris, looking around. "Fucking Umbrella."

They stood in a flooded atrium—the water was not too high, just a thin slick layer on the tile. There were glass panels missing from the domed roof, the broken pieces on the floor. Rain dripped from the empty panes above, pattering around them. "Reminds me of Antarctica," said Grayson aloud.

There was a stairwell across the atrium, beyond a pair of fire-doors. But the doors had been pushed outward, as if something had exploded on the other side of them. Alexia cursed, beating her fists against the door in a sudden rage.

Automatics ripped through the silence, and the survivors were the first to die. He saw the black guy run away with the Korean woman; the Korean woman went down, part of her head dissolving into a spray of blood, and the black guy kept running, and was gone. Jill flipped a leather armchair over and pushed Claire and Veronica into cover, firing a few shots and hitting someone: a B.C.S.F soldier, and she'd gotten him in the throat.

Grayson said, "Alexia, a little help!"

Tentacles burst through the floor and whipped one of the soldiers into a wall, and he hit it with a loud wet noise and did not get up. The other B.C.S.F guys appeared and fired at the tentacles, but more exploded through the floor, from every angle, bloodily ripping through the soldiers, littering the floor with their pieces. But then the tentacles stopped—Alexia complained about it being too much—and retreated like wounded animals, gone.

Grayson picked up a piece of glass and hurled the shard through a B.C.S.F woman's eye. He took a few anti-B.O.W fletchettes to the chest and arms; but it wasn't particularly painful this time, and elicited little more than a dull annoying ache, like growing pains. "He's not going down!" said one of the B.C.S.F soldiers. Grayson smashed a fist through the man's skull, and shook the brain and bone from his fingers.

"Enough, Harman." He turned around, and HUNK was there, his head floating in the air. His suit slowly became visible, in stark black contrast to the neutrals of the lobby. HUNK had a gun pressed to Veronica's head. "You just ease off, yeah? Your train's gone." He smiled like a skull. "I blew it up—" he made an explosion noise—" _Boom_ "—and started to laugh.

Veronica stared at Grayson with wide gray eyes. "Dad. Help me out here." She started to struggle, kicking her legs and squirming. HUNK smacked Veronica upside the head with his handgun, barked, " _Don't_ _fucking move_ ," and squeezed his arm around Veronica's throat until she choked, her face turning red.

"Stop it!" screamed Alexia. She moved, but HUNK shot her knee out with the gun, and Alexia crumpled.

"You're lucky this isn't the anti-B.O.W gun, Ashford," said HUNK, laughing like a madman. His laugh reminded Grayson of a hissing kettle. "Veronica's okay, Ashford. Don't worry. Bingham doesn't want her dead."

"I'm okay, mom. I'm tough," Veronica assured her, and HUNK smacked her upside the head again and told her to shut the fuck up.

"Your anti-B.O.W shit doesn't do fucking _shit_ to me anymore," said Grayson.

"Bingham mentioned that could happen," said HUNK, still smiling. "It's fine. You come closer, I shoot your daughter. Just like that." He teased the trigger, but did not shoot. "Sure, goes against the terms of my contract, but in this business, you know when to fold, brother."

Grayson knew he could kill HUNK, but at the cost of his daughter's life. HUNK kept playing with the trigger. If he moved too suddenly, Grayson could lose Veronica, and it would be his fault. He could not live with that guilt weighing on his conscience: failing to prevent the kill and watching HUNK blow a hole in his daughter's skull.

"I'm going to be okay, dad. I promise," Veronica said, and somehow, she managed a brave smile, even with a gun pointing at her head. "It's gonna be fine. You'll come find me, right?"

"Your folks aren't going to get out of Ashbury alive," said HUNK. He forced Veronica to look at the bodies of the dead survivors lying in the rain-water, turning it red with their blood. They were all dead, even the kids. "They're going to end up just like that, kid."

Grayson, for the first time since Antarctica, felt completely helpless.

"Just think," said HUNK, backing up. "If Redfield hadn't put the message out on that big-ass television screen, they'd probably still be alive, and the train wouldn't be blown to shit." He laughed again.

Claire's expression immediately collapsed, as if her ghost had fled her body.

"Bingham's got huge plans," said HUNK. "Alexia's just the fall-girl. Things are going to be changing pretty soon, folks. You're in for some dark times, and I'm in for some steady, well-paid employment." He grinned and fired a grappling cable at the dome-glass, hooking one of the broken panes and zipping up, Veronica tucked under his arm. Then HUNK was gone, and they were left in the silence, and in the stench of dead flesh and blood.

"Shit, shit, shit," said Jill, tearing off her BSAA hat and stomping on it. She whipped around and shouted, at nobody in particular, "What the fuck are we going to do now?" She raked her fingers through her hair, messing it. "The survivors are dead, the train's gone, and Veronica's been kidnapped for fucking _real_ this time!"

"They're all dead because of me," said Claire, slowly shaking her head.

"Enough with the fucking wallowing, Claire," said Alexia. Her knee had healed, but she still did not look okay. "We need to get Veronica back. And I need to find Bingham and fucking kill him."

"What happened back there, Alexia?" said Grayson. "Your tentacle things collapsed."

"Nothing. I couldn't keep my focus," said Alexia, dismissively.

"There's gotta be another way out of Ashbury," said Chris.

Claire said, "Sewers."

Jill stopped fuming and looked at her. "Sewers?"

"It's how I got around certain parts of Raccoon," said Claire. "We take the sewers, we can slip out of Ashbury without the feds noticing. They'll still be looking for us in the city. It'll buy us time to get in contact with Rebecca about the lab."

"We need the car. We'll need to get to a town," said Grayson. "So here's an idea, and listen closely, because I hate repeating myself: I'll drive the truck through one of the military barricades—the anti-B.O.W rounds don't affect me anymore, long story—and I'll meet you all outside Ashbury. There's a rest stop ten miles outside the city, on route 43. I'll take the SUV there."

"Ten miles won't be too bad of a walk," said Jill. She looked at Chris. "What do you think?"

"Don't have much of a fucking choice," said Chris. "But how do we know you're not going to run, Harman?"

"Because Bingham has my fucking daughter," snapped Grayson.

"I'll stay with the group," chimed Alexia. "Grayson won't go anywhere without me."

"You sure about that?" said Jill.

"I am. We're bound by more than marriage and a child," said Alexia, giving Jill a cool stare. "I'm not going to get into the particulars—simply know Grayson won't wander far from me. He's incapable."

"Fine. We'll take Ashford as collateral," said Chris.

"If I'm not at the rest stop when you get there, wait for me. I _will_ show up." Grayson left.


	36. Interlude 15: The Sewers

Grayson dropped them off at the nearest man-hole, then drove away. Jill wondered if she would see him again, and worried she would not. He planned to barrel through a military barricade. Grayson had said the anti-B.O.W rounds did not work on him anymore, and maybe it had been a lie. Maybe Grayson knew he would not come back. Maybe he had finally snapped, and wanted to take out as many B.C.S.F soldiers as he could in a suicide run.

Jill looked at the anti-B.O.W gun strapped to her leg and fingered the rubber grip, feeling uncertain.

Chris slid the cover from the man-hole, the metal grinding against asphalt. He shined his tactical light down in the hole, checking for zombies, seeing there were none, and starting down the rungs of the maintenance ladder. Jill followed, and so did the others. It had an unholy stink, like garbage that had sat out for weeks, or a septic leak. It reminded Jill of the time the local water company—where she had lived before she had moved to Portland—had broken her sewer line while they'd been repairing something up the street and had reduced her yard to a toilet; the neighborhood had smelled of fetid shit for a week.

Alexia said suddenly, "It smells like a fucking portaloo at the Stagecoach Festival."

"She's not inaccurate," said Chris, with an unreadable look. "Claire and I went one year. It was _bad_."

Claire did not add any anecdotes. She'd been relatively quiet since the Umbrella plant; she had still not entirely reconciled the loss of the survivors, and truthfully, neither had Jill. Jill felt a deep, painful pang of guilt because she was part of the BSAA, and she'd failed to protect the survivors. But unlike Claire, Jill had felt personal loss on a greater scale: she had lost her S.T.A.R.S colleagues in Raccoon, had lost friends and cohorts in the Middle East, and in other places because of her work with the BSAA. She had learned, with difficulty, to move on from loss, and focus on the now. Claire's experiences, though certainly terrible, did not expand beyond a handful of people; she had only ever lost Steve. This was the first time Claire had ever lost an entire group.

"It doesn't get any easier," said Jill, walking beside Claire. "Sometimes you make bad calls, Claire. It sucks they're dead—it bothers me too—but dwelling on it won't help anything. It'll only make it worse." Their footsteps made lonely noises in the tunnel-dark, and bled into the sound of running water. Jill watched Alexia and Chris in front of her. "Hate to say it, but maybe you should take a page out of Ashford's book."

"What about me?" said Alexia, looking back at them. She looked a bit sick, but her bite was still intact. Jill was convinced Alexia only came in two modes: angry, and tolerable. There was, at no point, a time Alexia was amiable.

"I was just telling Claire she could learn a thing or two from you, Alexia," said Jill. "You don't give a shit about anything."

Alexia stared at Claire. "You're still sniveling about those people?" she asked. "They're dead, Claire. Get over it."

" _Kids_ died, Alexia," said Claire. "Because I didn't think. I get you don't understand it."

"So you made a mistake. Get over it," said Alexia coolly. Jill could not imagine the sort of childhood Alexia had had to turn her so cold. She imagined a lonely little girl, isolated in the solitary confinement of her genius—too smart to relate to the everyman, and not loved enough to empathize. "Not every decision you make will be a good one," she added. "Learn to live with the consequences. ' _A man said to the universe: Sir, I exist! However, replied the universe, the fact has not created in me a sense of obligation_ '."

"Stephen Crane," said Jill automatically. She remembered the poem from college, and had always liked its brutal honesty.

"Yes, that's right," said Alexia. She looked at Claire. "The world is a cold, mean place, Claire. Perhaps you'll discard your rosy idealism and learn that. The sooner, the better."

Chris shook his head and said, "Jesus. You haven't changed at all since Antarctica."

"I'm a creature of habit," said Alexia, smiling.

"Just amazes me you can stay this cold after nearly twenty years," said Chris. "Veronica's been kidnapped, and you're still adamant about this whole bitch routine of yours, Alexia."

"Bingham wants Veronica alive. That being the case, it's pointless to worry overmuch."

"That's your goddamn daughter," said Chris.

"Who is every bit as resourceful as her mother," said Alexia. "We'll find her. Veronica will be fine."

"What about Grayson?" said Jill. Chris looked at her, but Jill did not look at him. Mostly, she did not look at him because she felt ashamed and guilty.

"Grayson is a bioweapon. He'll be fine," said Alexia confidently.

They walked in silence. Jill wasn't sure how much time had passed, but her legs were sore. Noises came from the darkness; Chris shined his light, and several pairs of eyes reflected the light back at them. "Shit," said Jill. These were not baseline zombies; these variants were more savage, more aggressive than their baseline cousins. The infected wore grubby rubber coveralls, former sewer techs who, like them, had probably tried to escape Ashbury through the sewers. They squatted in a layer of shit and garbage, eating the maggot-riddled remains of their dead colleagues who had been fortunate enough not to turn. Jill wondered how long the bodies had been down here; they stank of overripeness, and were bloated and mostly decomposed, and had turned a gangrenous color.

The infected ran, inhumanly fast, toward Chris's light. One wrestled him to the ground, and Chris struggled underneath it, digging his knees into the thing's stomach and rolling. He straddled it, pulled his S.T.A.R.S knife from its scabbard and stabbed it through the eye. Then climbed to his feet, sewage dripping from his clothes, and fired his rifle. Two zombies went down, part of their heads dissolving into a cloud of blood.

Claire was thrown against the grimy tunnel brickwork. The zombie nearly got her jugular; but Claire blew its head apart with the sawed-off before it could bite her, gore splattering her cheek.

Jill was suddenly shoved to the ground, and something heavy straddled her back, its fingernails digging into her flesh. She tried to shake it off, but could not, and was sure she'd die. But it suddenly collapsed, its heavy body pushing her down into the sewer muck, pungent stench of rot filling her nostrils, making her taste it. She retched, vomiting a little, and then someone hauled Jill to her feet and told her she was an idiot.

It was Alexia. "Those are advanced carriers," she said. "Somewhat like highly flawed mutants."

"Thanks," said Jill, wiping the grime from her mouth. "Doesn't 'mutant' imply flaw?"

"Not at all. Some mutations are beneficial," said Alexia. "Look at Grayson and myself. Or Albert Wesker."

"Yeah," said Jill.

"You're an idiot, Jill."

"Yeah."

Alexia stepped in front of her. She looked like a pissed off mom. "Those particular T-Variants are dangerous," she said. "Think of them as a halfway point between a zombie, and someone like Wesker. Capable of elementary skills. By that, I mean they're capable of brandishing a knife, mindlessly shooting a gun, or communicating among each other on a very basic level to facilitate group tactics, like pack-hunting. Which is what just happened."

"So they're kind of like ganados?" asked Chris. "Leon talked about them."

"The modified T-Virus strain contains elements of the Las Plagas, so yes," said Alexia. "But these variants aren't nearly as advanced as the plaga-infected humans Osmund Saddler had in his little cult. That, and the virus doesn't infect hosts similarly. Some adapt the virus, and become these things—" she gestured at the dead infected—"and others become simple zombies. I based the strain's make-up on the Wesker virus."

"So you're fucking saying some people could turn into Weskers?" asked Jill.

"Not at all," said Alexia, shaking her head. She paused. "Well, perhaps. Though the chance of that happening is slim to impossible. Grayson's virus was tailored to his DNA. If the virus infects a host with analogous DNA? I suppose it could happen."

Jill watched Claire rifling through the pockets of the dead infected. She wanted to ask what she was doing, but did not need to. Claire took something from one of the bodies: a damp piece of paper. "Check it out. Sewer map," she said, showing them. "Guess these guys were trying to get out of the city after all."

"Chris, shine your light over here." Chris did. Jill studied the map. The sewers were huge. She found a viable route, however, which would take them out onto Lake Inmutanka, about two miles outside the military perimeter. It would take them slightly out of the way of Route 43, but it was the closest exit. "We can take the sewer out onto Inmutanka. It's going to take us a little farther from 43, so we're going to have to walk a few extra miles through some woods."

"Better than trudging through all this filth," said Alexia, looking around.


	37. Interlude: 16 - Human After All

It was nearing dusk when they emerged from the darkness of the sewers. The weather had cleared up; the sky was pale purple, pink, and gold. The air still smelled of rain, and of the lake. Jill climbed down from the water drain and edged along Inmutanka, listening to frogs in the reeds, and the cicadas chirping in the trees.

Inmutanka was a large lake, glassy and black, trimmed with gold in the dying sunlight. She could see the dark shapes of cabins on the opposite shore, nestled in the shadows of the trees, the bright gold sun glinting between the branches. "It's beautiful out here," said Jill conversationally. "Really quiet."

"It's a popular weekend destination," said Alexia, shrugging. "Grayson and I took Veronica camping here when she was six. She was bitten by a bloody water snake while swimming, and we spent the night in the emergency room."

"Was it poisonous?" asked Chris.

"No," said Alexia.

"It's weird, hearing you talk about camping," said Claire.

"It wasn't my idea," said Alexia, making a face. "It was Grayson's. I hate being outdoors."

"Still weird," said Claire.

"This might shock you, Redfield," said Alexia, leaning conspiratorially close to Claire, "but I'm an actual human being that does actual human being things. _Wild_ , right? And get this: I bathe, work, pay bills, eat, sleep, and use the bathroom too! Shocking."

"You're barely human," said Claire, regarding Alexia blandly.

"Cryostasis didn't erase my species, Claire," said Alexia. "It simply improved on it."

They made their way through a deserted campground. Jill saw several fishing nets, boats, and tackle-boxes along the shore, and the black remnants of a bonfire. There were several cans and bottles of Natural Ice everywhere; an abandoned plastic cooler full of water; lawn-chairs, and a portable radio with a bent antenna. If there had been a party or event, the people had cleared out in a hurry. And that worried Jill. It either meant the military had told them to leave their things and go, or the infection had leaked. She really hoped the infection had not leaked.

It took them about an hour and a half to walk through the woods, and Jill had not seen any zombies, so that was a good sign. It was dark by the time they hit Route 43. It was strange, seeing a highway completely deserted. A few cars were on the road, and when Jill looked through the windows, the cars were either empty, or full of dead civilians—shot through the heads, the windshields splattered with their blood. She guessed the B.C.S.F had killed them, so they would not potentially spread the infection.

"Jesus," said Jill, shaking her head. "Can you believe this?"

"What's hard to believe?" asked Alexia. "That the American government would kill its own citizens?" She laughed, glancing at the car. "They've been doing that sort of thing for years. They're just going to blame bio-terrorists, spin it as some secret ISIS agenda, and say I'm probably working with them because I'm an easy scapegoat—given my past affiliation with Umbrella. Then the idiot jingoists will go back to watching sports and discussing the latest celebrity gossip, crying about immigrants, welfare, and how we need to blow the Arabs to shit... Basically, the American public will just do what they usually do: find solace in their ignorance, and pretend the world doesn't exist beyond the borders of the United States."

"I don't see the British doing much either," said Chris.

"We British are just as complacent in our idiocy as you bloody yanks," said Alexia. "That's the world, Chris. It's full of stupid people, regardless of nationality. In England, they watch football and complain about the same things the Americans complain about: the dole, immigrants, politicians. But I digress; I'm not interested in a political discussion."

They followed Route 43 and eventually found the rest stop Grayson had mentioned. Jill wasn't sure how much time had passed, but was sure it had been several hours; her feet were sore, and her legs ached deeply.

The rest stop was one of those small, desolate ones which were often ignored by drivers because of its lack of modernity. There was only a run-down bathroom, four streetlights (one was broken), which cast a creepy sodium-glow around the place, two ancient vending machines, and a few picnic tables out by the woods.

"Of course Grayson picks the fucking rest stop that looks like it belongs in a slasher film," said Jill aloud.

"It was the closest rendezvous point," said Chris.

Jill dug into her pocket for some change, and bought a Coke from the vending machine. The machine grumbled and spat the can out. She wasn't much of a soda-drinker—Jill usually stayed away from the stuff—but she was thirsty. The supplies Chris had brought back to the gas station were inside the SUV, and Grayson still wasn't here.

They sat on the curb, in front of the bathrooms. Jill did not want to go to the picnic tables; she had never liked dark forests—her mother had been fairly superstitious—but especially did not like them now because of the Spencer Incident. Since then, Jill imagined every dark forest harbored packs of undead dogs, so she stayed away.

Chris had gone to the bathroom. Jill sat between Alexia and Claire and sipped her Coke, offering them some because the stuff made her feel sick. Alexia said no, she did not drink fizzy drinks (Jill smiled to herself, because Alexia's Briticisms amused her) and Claire said thanks, sipped it, and passed it back to her. "Hey, Alexia?" said Jill. "Do you generally call bathrooms a loo?" She laughed, unable to help herself.

"No," said Alexia, giving her an annoyed look. "Not generally. Toilet, sometimes bathroom because of my bloody husband." She shook her head. "What is it you Americans find so amusing about my nationality. Going to ask me if I enjoy tea and crumpets next?"

"Just some friendly banter to pass the time. Chit-chat, you know?" said Jill, looking at her. It was mostly true; her intention had been benign, though Jill also wanted to dig a little more into Alexia's past. She was curious about her.

"Should I make a joke about the Japanese?" said Alexia, frowning.

"Go ahead. I'm only half, and entirely American," said Jill.

Alexia shook her head.

"What was it like?" asked Jill. Claire was listening, watching them with an unreadable look. "I mean, as a kid. Must've been weird, being smart as you are."

"We're not friends, Jill," said Alexia coolly.

"I never said we were. It's just a question." Jill smiled. Then she added, "We're just talking."

Alexia did not immediately answer. She stared at nothing, fiddling with a small twig, turning it between her fingers. She sniffed, snapped the twig and tossed the pieces on the ground, wiping her hands on her knees. Then she said, "It's about what you would expect. I was better than them, and they didn't like it."

"Them?" said Jill.

"My peers, my colleagues. Everyone," said Alexia.

"Spoken like a true fucking egoist," said Claire. She turned toward them. Then, to Alexia, "You were a lonely kid, I'm guessing. People ignored you. I know your situation with Alexander; I read the files, back in Antarctica. You keep telling yourself you're better than everyone because it makes the pain of isolation a little easier. Right?"

"You're awfully presumptuous," said Alexia, staring at Claire. Alexia had a stare like a cat. She did not break focus when she looked at someone; she could look someone straight in the eyes, and right down into their essence. "I'm not lonely, Claire, and I am better than everyone," continued Alexia. "You watch too many movies. Do you think you're going to somehow change me? Dig deep into my personal issues and point out whatever vulnerabilities you imagine I have, and persuade me into some grand redemption? This isn't Hollywood. Don't mistake my cooperation as a change of heart; our partnership is a convenience."

"Yeah," said Claire.

"You don't sound convinced," said Alexia.

"Because I'm not," said Claire, matter-of-factly. "I'm starting to see you in a new weird light, Alexia. It's actually starting to scare me."

"Scare?" said Alexia, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah. It's scary because I'm starting to think you've got some humanity left."

"She's right," said Jill. Although she did not entirely trust Alexia, Alexia had demonstrated a capacity for humanness, and that gave Jill hope. Maybe, she thought, things would end on a good note. Maybe Alexia would cut a deal with the BSAA, and Jill would not have to arrest or kill her. "You saved my life in the sewers," she said. "You care about your daughter, and about Grayson. You go camping. You're sarcastic. Sometimes you even say funny things, like that comment you made about portaloos and Stagecoach."

"I think you're all being far too optimistic," said Alexia.

"Optimism is an effective remedy for doubt," said Jill.


	38. Part Three - Jack Pine

Grayson turned the wipers on, smearing his blood on the windshield. The B.C.S.F had sprayed him with fletchettes from behind. Could still feel the burn of the P-Epsilon under his skin, similar to the sensation of touching something hot, the heat lingering under the flesh in a stratum of unpleasantness... He saw a blue aluminum sign on the side of the road which announced the rest stop was two miles ahead.

Grayson drove and came up on the rest stop, and automatically hit his blinkers—but remembered there was nobody actually on Route 43 right now and turned them off—and shifted to the lane on the farthest right, coasting into the crumbling asphalt lot. His headlights flashed over the faces of the group. They ran toward the vehicle and piled in.

Alexia sat up front with him. "About bloody time," she said, without looking at him.

"Nice to see you too," said Grayson, and shook his head. He turned on the radio to some local station, and they were playing one of his favorites, a song called _Carry Me, Ohio_ by Sun Kil Moon _._ "Got radio. Means the infection hasn't gotten too out of control," he added conversationally, driving away from the rest stop.

He drove for several hours, and in no particular direction. They found themselves in a small Arklay town called Jack Pine, population 4,234. Grayson pulled over and parked the SUV in a copse of trees, just off the metal drawbridge that led into town, and they walked the rest of the way because he did not want to drive into a strange town with a blood-spattered vehicle.

There was a main street in Jack Pine occupied by little shops, and mom-and-pop restaurants with names like Mama Janine's, or Jackrabbit Grill, or some similar variant.

The locals here looked like the sort of people who would live and die in Jack Pine. Everyone wore hunter's camouflage or plaid, or old worn jeans and T-Shirts, and boots. It was strange seeing actual life after being inside Ashbury for so long, as if they had dropped out of FTL travel and into some alien system.

They stopped at the first motel they saw. The front-desk clerk saw their dirty clothes and looked as if he was about to tell them to leave, or call the cops. But when Grayson handed him a roll of money, the man handed over their room-keys without a word and returned to watching a boxing match on an ancient black-and-white portable television. If the cops did come, Grayson would tell them they were survivors from Ashbury, and Chris and Jill would affirm their story and show the cops their BSAA credentials.

The motel was one of those cheap one-story places people took prostitutes to. Their room was decorated in an innocuous way, with faded floral prints, cheap corduroy furniture, and a huge box television that had been cutting-edge twenty-two years ago. It smelled of infrequent airing; Grayson wasn't even sure if the hotel had cleaners, because he had not seen anyone but the front-desk clerk. Still, they did not plan to stay long, and it did have a bathroom, and right now that was all Grayson really cared about—a long, hot shower.

"So nice to finally have our own space," said Alexia, stripping off her dirty clothes and making a bee-line for the bathroom.

Grayson took off his clothes and followed Alexia, mostly because he did not feel like waiting an hour for her to shower. There was a dead fly in the bathtub, which Grayson picked up and flushed down the toilet.

"I'm worried about Veronica." He stepped into the shower with Alexia and fiddled with the plastic knobs, hot water spraying his back, the grime swirling around his feet and into the drain. It was a tight fit with the two of them in there, but they made it work.

"Bingham doesn't want to kill her," said Alexia, kissing the back of his shoulder. "Veronica will be fine. We'll get her back, Grayson."

"How do you always stay so confident?"

"Because I'm right," said Alexia. She moved in front of him and leaned back against the tiled wall. "Now are you going to fuck me, or are you going to keep pointlessly worrying about things until your hair turns gray?"

They made violent love against the wall, and then they finished washing, stepping into the coolness of their room. The air conditioning unit rattled in the window, and the cold air pimpled his skin. They slept for a few hours, then went into town for new clothes. One of the clerks asked him why they looked like they did, and Grayson told her a sad story about Ashbury. The woman said they did not have to worry about payment, and they left in new clothes; it wasn't the nice stuff Alexia was accustomed to, but at least it was clean. Grayson did not mind wearing jeans and button-ups, even the fairly cheap kind, but Alexia hated it.

When they returned to the motel, Jill said, "We just got in touch with Rebecca." She was clean and wore new clothes. Grayson guessed Chris and her had gotten a similar idea, and had gone into town. "We have the location of Bingham's lab."

"Where?" said Alexia.

"I'm not telling you," said Jill. "We'll take you, like promised, but we're not going to tell you. You might cut out."

Alexia scowled.

"At least you're going to get there, Alexia," said Jill, looking at her.

"Fine," said Alexia tersely. "Grayson, I'm going back to the room." She went.

"You understand, Grayson," said Jill.

"Yeah," he said. "I get it."

"How are you holding up?" she asked.

"I'm fine. Is Bingham's lab far? Please tell me it's not in another country."

"No, it isn't in another country," said Jill.

"Good."

"You sure you're okay, Grayson?"

"I am," he said, and meant it. "Everything is almost over."

Jill frowned. "Yeah, I know," she said quietly, staring at the cracked asphalt between their feet. She rubbed the back of her neck. "We've been through a lot, huh?" she said. "First Raccoon. Now Ashbury. And it's all coming to an end." Jill looked away and stared at the lights in town. "Pretty idyllic place, isn't it?"

"It's a redneck town," said Grayson.

"Yeah. But it's nice in that small town kind of way," said Jill. "You don't see places like this outside the Midwest."

"Suppose not," he said. It was true; towns like Jack Pine were slowly becoming extinct with the advent of rushed modernization, where entire cement and glass cities could crop up over night. Grayson supposed that was why people, like the people in Jack Pine, never left their towns; they felt more comfortable as relics, because newness overwhelmed them. "Any reason we're still standing out here?" he asked, looking at her.

Jill shook her head. "I just wanted to talk," she said. "I miss you, Grayson."

"We've been over this, Jill."

"I know. You love Alexia."

He heard sirens down the road, saw a sheriff's cruiser driving toward them. The car stopped a few feet away, and a heavy-set man in a beige uniform and cowboy hat stepped outside, followed by his deputy. The sheriff adjusted his pants, took a pinch of Grizzly mint from its tin and popped it into his mouth. "Heard you folks are from Ashbury," said the man, chewing. He had a rust-colored Hulk Hogan mustache and a doughy red face, and seemed to perpetually squint. He looked, Grayson decided, a bit like Wilford Brimley.

Grayson was glad he had not forgotten his sunglasses. He said, "Yeah. We're from Ashbury, officer."

Jill fished out her BSAA badge and showed it to the man. "Jill Valentine, Bio-terrorism Security Assessment Alliance. Myself and a fellow member named Chris Redfield extracted the survivors from the city." It had been a lie of course, but Grayson figured it sufficed enough for a dumb small-town cop. "Is something wrong, sir?" asked Jill.

"We want to talk to you folks down at the station," said the sheriff. "Go get your buddies."


	39. Part Three - Intermission - Jail Talk

Veronica wasn't sure where she was. The guy named HUNK had put a sack over her head, and had driven for a long time. When HUNK had finally taken the bag off, Veronica stood in front of a high security cell, like the kind used to contain dangerous felons.

It was a small concrete room with a reinforced steel door. There wasn't anything in there except a cot, a toilet and shower, sink, and a small plastic bookcase. The books were random titles, and there were some magazines, mostly _National Geographic_ and _Newsweek_ issues from several years ago. A vent was on the left wall, and Veronica heard faint noises from it, like a large nervous animal pacing.

HUNK said, "Better get used to it." His smile was the coldest smile Veronica had ever seen. Then again, she thought, everything about HUNK was the coldest she had ever seen. With an emptiness like his, Veronica wondered if the asshole was even human, and somewhat doubted he was. "You're going to be here for a while, kid."

"What the hell do you want with me, old guy?" she said, though Veronica didn't actually expect him to tell her. She just wanted HUNK to know she wasn't scared of him. She wasn't scared because she knew her parents would come. "This some kinda pedophile ring?" she asked. "You traffic young girls to Mexico, or something? Because fuck that."

HUNK laughed and slammed the door on her. Then said, through the little slot in the door, "You're necessary for something," and left. Veronica heard his heavy footsteps receding down the hall, and then they were gone.

The silence in the cell was overwhelming, almost physical. Veronica wanted to cry, but figured there wasn't really any point to crying. At this point, she wasn't even sure if it would even be cathartic—unnecessary wasted effort when Veronica could be devising an escape plan. She looked around, and didn't see any obvious structural weaknesses in the cell—other than the vent. Veronica stared at the vent. Then tried to jimmy it loose.

"Don't bother," said a vaguely familiar voice, from beyond the vent. The voice sounded tired. "Already tried it, and I couldn't get it loose. Not like I could fit anyway. Figured Bingham put it there to tease us, or something. Maybe so we could discuss our impending doom."

Veronica recognized the voice then. It belonged to Steve Burnside. "You're that guy Steve," she said. "The one from Hobbs. In the car."

"That would be me," said Steve.

"What's going on in this place, Steve?"

Steve did not immediately answer. Then he said, "Bingham is working for the fucking Illuminati. Heard him talking. He takes me out of the cell sometimes to run tests. I don't know what they're for, just that they fucking hurt."

"Illuminati?" said Veronica, smiling to herself because it was stupid. "That tin-foil hat a little snug, Steve?"

"I'm fucking serious," he said. "They're called The Family. Illuminati. World Order. Big fucking Brother. Whatever you wanna call them, that's who they are. They're the puppeteers."

"I think this place has gone to your head, man," said Veronica.

"I'm fucking serious," he said.

"Okay, so say I take your word for it, and it's the fucking lizard people. What do they want?"

"They want Umbrella back," he said.

"Umbrella? As in the Umbrella Corporation?" Veronica was interested. She sat down by the vent, staring at the wall, watching a silverfish scuttling across, and into a crack.

"Yeah. That Umbrella," said Steve. "Ashbury was ground zero. We're fucked. History is starting to repeat itself. Haven't you goddamn noticed?" He paused. Veronica heard him muttering under his breath, but could not make out the words. Then Steve said aloud, "Bingham is just the fucking pawn. He thinks he's got The Family beat, but he's fucking wrong. They're playing him for an idiot. They sent him to Alexia's lab. And my stupid ass handed the research over to Bingham because the BSAA needed a trace. _I_ handed the research over to The Family, and killed all those people in the city."

"What about those soldier guys? Like HUNK?" said Veronica.

"HUNK's another tool. The government is a tool. They all answer to The Family. They want to replace the BSAA with the B.C.S.F because the BSAA doesn't fit into their plans. Jill's gonna be in trouble. So's Chris." His voice wavered, as if it had hit an emotional snare. Then, "So's Claire."

"Ashbury wasn't your fault," said Veronica.

"Yes it fucking was," said Steve. "I handed the research to Bingham. The BSAA bugged it; we wanted to follow him back to this place. Well, sure as shit I found it, but Bingham knows the plan now, and he's waiting for Jill and them to come."

"He found the bug," said Veronica, understanding. She stared at the floor.

"I've been in and out of this goddamn cell since," said Steve. "I don't know how much time has passed. Soon as I brought those jammers down, I was being dragged here by the B.C.S.F. Bingham knew. I thought I was careful."

"What does The Family want with my mom?" asked Veronica. A part of her didn't actually want to know; she worried they would kill her mom, and Veronica wasn't sure if she could handle that. Her mother and her had plans.

"Alexia? Not sure," said Steve. "I heard Bingham mention the Ashfords had been part of The Family. He rambles a lot to himself. Talks to himself. Sometimes argues. He's fucking bat-shit. Says the Ashfords were part of The Family, but Spencer got greedy and had Edward, your great-grandpa, disavowed from their Fraternity and killed. I don't know why. He found something on that computer of his, and it's been driving him crazy. Sometimes he gets so angry, he'll come in here, drag me outta the cell and cut me up a bit. I guess it makes him feel better."

Veronica felt a hot lump in her throat. Would Bingham drag her out of her cell too, and cut her up? The idea sent a violent shiver down her back, and she suddenly felt very cold. "Why would Spencer do that?" she asked, ignoring the knife glinting in her thoughts, and the imaginary smell of blood. "Kill my great-grandpa?"

"The Family probably put him up to it," said Steve. "Maybe Spencer wanted Umbrella, or maybe The Family wanted Umbrella, and Spencer was the more compliant puppet. I heard something about a memoir. Maybe Edward was going to tell on them."

"Does my mom know about all of this?" asked Veronica.

"From what I could tell—and mind you, dude had me strung out on pain and drugs—no, Alexia doesn't have a fucking clue."

"You mentioned something about a computer," said Veronica. "What computer?"

"The Red Queen," said Steve. "It was Umbrella's personal A.I. Basically, it's a virtual Umbrella. It has everything the company ever did on there. Bingham salvaged it from the Caucasus lab, after Albert Wesker wiped its hard-drive. I'm starting to think that maybe Wesker was trying to fight The Family, and that was how he intended to do it. And it worked for a while. The Raccoon Trials killed Umbrella. But now The Family's had enough time to find the right sucker to bring the whole operation back online."

"You're saying Albert Wesker might've been the good guy?"

"Exactly what I'm fucking saying," said Steve. "It fits. Sure, maybe Wesker's methods weren't the greatest. But this dude was taking on the fucking Illuminati. The Bilderberg Group. And Chris killed Wesker in Kijuju, shot our best chance through the head."

"Even if Wesker was, it was for his own goddamn gains," said Veronica.

"Who cares? Point is, Wesker was gonna fight it, kid."

"What does Bingham get out of all this shit?" asked Veronica.

"Steady funding. The guy's got no possessions of his own, from what I've seen in this fucking place. All the money he gets just gets dumped into his experiments. The Family were the people who started Project Wesker, kid. It's one of the steps toward their New World Order, I bet."

"Jesus fucking Christ, you sound like every redneck conspiracy theorist on the internet," said Veronica.

"But it makes fucking sense," said Steve.

"Okay. Maybe it does. But why's The Family after my parents?"

"Your dad's the template for everything Bingham's been doing here," said Steve. "Alexia's a loose-end The Family wants gone. They're gonna get her, one way or another. They've got agents everywhere, kid. Even in places you wouldn't expect."


	40. Part Three - Bad Horizons

The police station was at the far end of Jack Pine, not quite outside of the city, but not quite inside it either. It was in the Arklay foothills, and banked by trees and underbrush. It was small too, a one-story brick building with a slate roof, and only three cruisers parked in the lot on the side of the building. The cruisers looked second-hand; they were relatively beat-up, a dent in the hood of one.

Grayson learned the sheriff's name was Thomas Matheny, though people around these parts called him Tommy Gun. His office was reflective of typical redneck interests: there was taxidermy—the taxidermy had made Claire uneasy, and she had mentioned something about if she saw a dead woman on Tommy's desk, she would flip shit—and several newspaper clippings from fishing tourneys on Lake Inmutanka, all of which Tommy had seemed to have won. One picture showed a slightly younger him holding up an enormous bass, Tommy's eyes hidden by cheap plastic sunglasses on a green nylon string.

His deputy had taken Claire, Jill, and Chris elsewhere in the station. It was only Alexia and him, standing awkwardly in the rustic colors and worn innocuous furniture of Tommy's office. Grayson instantly knew something was up; this did not feel like typical cop procedure. Though perhaps Tommy did not care about procedure, because Tommy was a small-town cop whose superiors were far away, and probably every bit as back-country as him.

"Have a seat," said Tommy, thumbing another wad of Grizzly mint inside his cheek and chewing. He lowered his bulk into an upholstered desk-chair, the pleather torn in some places, showing yellow foam.

"What are we being charged with?" asked Alexia, sitting down in the seat beside Grayson.

Tommy didn't say anything. He was scribbling something down on a form.

"What are we being charged with?" asked Alexia again, coolly.

Tommy laughed, rubbing his mustache. "Car theft, for one. But compared to everything else, that's small-time." He looked up and smiled without warmth. A distinct coldness in Tommy's eyes now. "You're a wanted bio-terrorist, Alexia Ashford," said the sheriff, chuckling wetly. Then the gun emerged in Tommy's large pink hand, pointing at them from across the cluttered aluminum expanse of his desk. Grayson wondered if the cop was really that dumb; nobody in their right fucking mind would point a gun at Alexia and him. "People," said Tommy, "are willin' to pay a lot of money to see you."

"People?" said Alexia.

"You're gettin' in the way of The Family," said Tommy. "They wanna make a deal." There was something menacing about Tommy now, a grim quality in his back-woods twang that said: _I am not fucking around_.

Grayson said, "You really are a fucking moron," and broke Tommy's wrist, before he could pull the trigger. Tommy howled, dropped the gun. An officer, some rookie by the look of it, had heard the racket because the station was so small. She looked at Tommy's doughy form whimpering on the scuffed floorboards, a certain confused horror on her face. Then she pointed her gun at them, shot.

The bullet missed, chipping the floor by his shoe. Grayson rushed the woman, snapped her neck clean. She dropped to the ground, dead. He turned on Tommy, then, and smashed the sheriff's skull open against the floor. Tommy's fat body twitched once, a death-shake, then stopped moving altogether, lying there like a lump of wax.

On Tommy's desk, Grayson saw a picture of his wife and kids. "He didn't mean that Family, I'm sure," he said.

"No, he didn't," said Alexia, moving past him and stepping over Tommy's large body. "Let's find the others. I'm burning this place to the ground."

"Probably for the best," said Grayson, following her. "But you owe me an explanation."

"You'll get one," said Alexia.

Claire came out from another room. She said, "The deputy tried to fucking kill us."

"They're working for The Family," said Alexia.

"The Family?" said Claire.

"I'll explain later," said Alexia. She looked at Claire. "Where are Jill and Chris?"

"Right here." Jill appeared beside Chris, and they left the station together.

In the parking lot, Alexia said to Chris, "I need your knife."

"You really think I'm just going to hand you my knife?"

"Give me the fucking knife, Chris."

"No," he said.

"Fine." Alexia stretched out her hand. She started looking a little sick again. "Cut me," she said, staring at him.

"So you can use your little blood trick? Fuck you, Ashford."

Grayson said, "Do it, Chris." Though he did not want Alexia to hurt herself, it was necessary; if the State troopers came, or even the B.C.S.F, they would announce they had murdered innocent cops to the idiot masses, and Alexia would have yet another crime tacked to her already very long, and mostly fabricated, rap-sheet.

Chris frowned. He looked indecisive. Then he took out his knife and cut a deep gash in Alexia's hand. "You're a fucking freak," he said, stepping away and sheathing the weapon.

"It's either you comply, or you go down with me. You think they'll just pin this on me?" Alexia turned away and started to coat the brickwork with trails of blood. Grayson was pretty sure the human body didn't contain that much blood, and wondered if the T-Veronica generated more of it, or if it was even blood at all—he still didn't precisely understand the finer mechanisms of the virus, and probably never would.

The blood caught fire, the stinging reek of butane in the air. The station started sagging and crumbling in on itself, the butane stench giving way to cooked meat and burned wood. The white-hot flames climbed higher into the air, black smoke screening the stars. Then the station was gone, nothing but cinders and blackened bricks.

Alexia walked away, toward town. The cut on her hand had healed, but she still looked sick.

They slept one more night in the motel. The next morning, locals were already talking about the freak fire up at the station, and it had made the local news network. The fire department said they couldn't verify the cause of the fire. The state police suspected arson, but couldn't say for sure, and announced that sheriff Thomas Matheny was dead, and so were three other officers.

They returned to the car, still parked among the trees by the drawbridge into town. Chris climbed into the driver's seat. Jill took the passenger side. Grayson climbed into the back between Claire and Alexia. Without the survivors, the car was a lot roomier; he could stretch his legs comfortably.

"So who's The Family?" asked Grayson, as they drove away from Jack Pine, presumably toward Bingham's laboratory.

"You know all of those stories about the Illuminati? The Bilderberg Group? The Free Masons, or the Knights Templar?" said Alexia, looking at him. "That's essentially The Family. A fraternity of shadows. My family was once part of them, but we were disavowed. That's really all I know; I was never told the particulars, and never cared enough to ask. Alfred knew more about them than I did, but he's dead." She scowled at Claire.

Grayson started laughing, because he could not help himself. "Holy shit. You were part of the Illuminati?" He kept laughing. The idea that Alexia had been part of some Lovecraftian political cabal was probably the funniest thing Grayson had ever heard, and he wasn't sure if he believed it. "You're the fucking lizard people," he said, choking on his laughter. "You're the enemy of every tin-foil hat-wearing redneck who's ever listened to five minutes of Rush Limbaugh or Jessie Ventura. You're the One World Order, the fucking League of Doom. You realize how fucking ridiculous that sounds?"

Alexia punched him in the arm. "I'm serious," she snapped.

"Okay, so say the Illuminati is after you. Why?"

"The Illuminati is just a stupid term other people coined," said Alexia. "It's always been The Family. I don't know why they want to talk to me."

"You own the biggest black clinic operation, next to Bingham," said Jill. "But now we know why his operation got so big—Bingham's been getting funding from The Family. You're competition, Alexia, but valuable. They want you consolidated."

"You actually believe this shit, Jill?" asked Claire. "Come on. The fucking Illuminati? Jesus Christ, I've heard some stupid shit in my life, but this takes the cake."

"It's not bullshit," said Chris. "Remember the Lanshiang Incident, Goob? They were behind it." He shook his head, adding, "Should've known something was up when we started seeing fucking zombies again. Should've known when we started seeing Bingham's op expanding." Chris paused. "God, we fucked up."


	41. Part Three - Another Short Intermission

Veronica heard someone coming, and wondered if it was Bingham. She'd met him once already, and she had hated his guts; the guy was a creep, an antagonist in some Hitchcock thriller. The door opened, and it was Bingham. But there was a man with him this time, and Veronica had never seen the guy before.

Bingham was a tall, lanky guy with dark hair and a beard, in a cream-colored suit with a metallic tie. The guy next to him was even taller and lankier than Bingham was, and looked like some hot-shot Wall Street broker. He wore a dark Italian suit, which might have been navy, or might have been black, and his graying hair was styled in a way which suggested: _I am one of the old boys_.

Veronica wondered if Steve would say anything about the man. Sometimes he'd make comments through the vent, but Steve had been quiet lately, and Veronica was beginning to worry something bad had happened to him. The man in the dark suit—Veronica decided she would call him Old Boy—stared at her as if she was an exhibit.

"This is her?" said Old Boy, and he sounded very unimpressed. Veronica wasn't sure if Old Boy was just unimpressed with her, or if he was generally unimpressed with everything. HUNK had that kind of voice; HUNK's tone implied he did not give a single shit about anything, and Old Boy probably did not give a single shit about anything either. "We reviewed the tests. I was expecting someone a little more remarkable, Dr. Bingham. Like her mother."

"You're aware of Jake Muller?" said Bingham, smiling like a sycophant. "Similar process. We can use her blood to modify a strain of the Wesker virus, in the same way Carla Radames modified the C-Virus some years ago."

"Her intelligence is above-average," said Old Boy. "But she isn't Alexia."

So that was why Bingham had taken a blood sample. Veronica's arm still hurt, where he'd stuck her with the needle.

"Alexia will be well in hand," said Bingham soothingly. "The plan will work. She values her reputation—and her daughter. Besides, we can change all that. Make viable subjects.

"Where's the Burnside kid anyway?" asked Old Boy.

"Testing," said Bingham. "He's not a very remarkable specimen. But Burnside might give us _something_ viable relating to the T-Veronica, since Alexia kept her personal research all very oblique. Other than that, it's pure torture. He deserves it for double-crossing us."

Old Boy nodded. His cold green eyes made Veronica think of something reptilian. "If Alexia plays hard-ball, maybe we can make something out of her kid. You can do your weird science shit, and we'll fund the trouble."


	42. Part Three - The Descent

They stopped in a small spit of a town several miles away from Jack Pine. Grayson wasn't even sure it had a name. If it did, he had not seen any signs.

The town was so small that, if they drove straight through, they could clear the entirety of it in less than ten minutes. Chris had gone to sleep some hours ago in the passenger seat, and Jill had taken the wheel. They pulled into a tiny convenience store called Annie Oakley's, which, by its innocuous convenience store architecture, looked like it might have been a 7-11 at some point in the distant past. An older man was outside sweeping the parking lot. When he saw the car (they had cleaned the blood off a while ago, so hopefully it did not stick out too much now) the man limped inside, stepped behind the register and started wiping the counter with a wet wipe.

Claire was stretched out in the third row of seats, dead asleep. Alexia was still awake, and looked nauseous. When Grayson asked her if she was okay, Alexia assured she was fine, just tired, and wanted to sleep some before they reached Bingham's lab.

Jill and him went inside the store. It was sort of awkward; it reminded him of when they had been together, and they would make late-night runs to the local convenience store for ice cream, booze, candy, or when he'd wanted smokes, back when his nicotine habit had been frequent, and at its worst.

The man smiled dully at them, like a man who was tired of his job, and just wanted to retire. Jill said, "Hey, we're passing through town, and need some directions. Don't mean to bother you, sir."

"No trouble. It isn't like we're busy." The man laughed wetly. Up close, Grayson could see the deep lines and pockmarks in his parchment-colored face, and his nose had a thick smattering of blackheads. His features were asymmetrical, probably Bell's palsy. "Where you needin' to get? Not many folks passing through here," he said. There was a small box television behind the man, on a shelf above him in the corner; it was playing some local news channel. The volume had been turned low, so Grayson could not quite hear the report.

"We're going camping," said Jill. Grayson was impressed; she had gotten better at lying. "My phone died, so I couldn't GPS the place. We're looking for the Arklay Nature Reserve. Think you could point us in the right direction?"

The old man gave the directions. He had to repeat himself a few times because Jill either did not understand his thick hick-twang, or he'd spoken too fast, and in a very convoluted local way (Grayson suddenly recalled the very specific memory of his father asking for directions to the Spencer estate at that little gas station outside Raccoon, back in 1983, and how Alexia, Alfred, and him had watched the pantomime from the car), but after a few tries, Jill got the information she needed.

"Just be careful up there," said the old man. "Umbrella used to have a facility up that way. It's near Stoneville."

Grayson wasn't really paying attention to the man. He watched the television. It showed a picture of Ashbury. "Hey, mind turning that up?" he asked.

"Nasty business what's goin' on in Ashbury," said the old man, dialing up the volume. "Goddamn terrorists."

The newscaster, a middle-aged blonde woman, said, staring directly into the camera, "Ashbury is still on military lock-down, and may be tied to an ISIS plot. New data has surfaced that the incident may have been funded by former Umbrella scientist Alexia Ashford, who was thought to have died in 1983." They showed an old picture of Alexia. She was thirteen-years-old in the photograph; Grayson recognized it from her employee ID. "Alexia Ashford was Umbrella's youngest scientist," continued the newscaster, "and the granddaughter of the prominent geneticist Edward Ashford. The British Prime Minister has been contacted with questions, but has remained silent on the matter..."

The newscaster started going into the known details of Alexia's life, showing grainy clips of interviews from the 1980s, from her talk-show incident back in the early 2000s, and from old press coverage of the Raccoon Trials. The old man said, with jingoistic fury, "Fucking British. You believe that? Fucking British are funding bio-terrorism now. You think they hated America that much, they'd fuck right on off an leave us to our own. They got enough problems with them Arabs as it is." He shook his head. "I remember that bitch from the Raccoon Trials media circus couple years back."

Grayson wanted to kill the man, but Jill steered him outside. They crossed the parking lot. "I'm not going to let you hurt him," she said, in her usual this-is-how-it-is way. "He's a fucking moron, sure. But he doesn't deserve to die."

"I could've ripped his head off. Literally," said Grayson.

"He's a moron. Idiocy isn't grounds for murder," said Jill.

"It should be."

"All that shit Alexia was saying about The Family? It's true," said Jill, shaking her head as if she could not believe that. "They own the media. They're spinning Ashbury as a terror plot, and your wife's the sacrificial lamb. It's another pass-the-blame game, just like Umbrella. The Family owns the government, and this is how they're going to exonerate themselves. Alexia's a bitch, but she isn't behind Ashbury."

"Alexia doesn't wantonly kill like you seem to think she does," said Grayson, pushing his hands inside his pockets. "Everything she does has a reason, Jill. She's very deliberate. And I'd argue she's saner than most people—her predilection for weaponized viruses aside."

"Your perspective's all skewed, because you're fucking crazy and you love her."

"Alexia's only ever killed people who've tried to kill her first. Assholes deserved it."

They climbed into the car. Alexia had either woken up when they'd gotten into the car—the doors made that annoying _ping-ping-ping_ sound—or she had not actually managed to sleep. She said, "You look pissed off, Grayson."

"Yeah, about that. You're a wanted terrorist," he said.

"What?" Alexia sat a little straighter, and looked a bit more alert.

"On the television in there, news is saying you funded the Ashbury plot. Paid off terrorists," he said.

"The Family," she said.

"Yep."

"Well," said Alexia, "this is new. I've never been public enemy number one. I won't lie; I'm a little proud of myself."

Grayson was glad Alexia could find some humor in the situation, because he certainly could not. The feds, The Family's bloodhounds, were on their scent now, and they would be relentless. "I'm glad you're laughing," he said. "Because I sure as fuck am not."

"Grayson, you forget who I am."

"A huge pain in the ass?"

"Besides that," she said, smiling like a skull. "I'm Alexia Ashford."

The Arklay Nature Reserve was three hours away. It was several acres of preserved temperate forest. They parked in a gravel parking lot, at the foot of a hiking trail. They started up the path, passing signs that gave information about the local fauna, animals, a concise history of the Arklays first as sacred Indian land, then settler land, which was later bought by Umbrella and turned into privatized land. When Umbrella collapsed, the Reserve had passed into the hands of the government and had been converted into a state park. They saw a few people, mostly bored teenagers who had come up here to camp and drink. The teens did not pay them any mind.

"Where are we going?" asked Claire, beside him.

"The old man at the store said Umbrella used to have a facility," said Jill, studying her directions. "Rebecca only told me about the Reserve. Looked at some satellite images, but couldn't find the place. Building was knocked down several years ago. So I asked the guy at the store where the facility had been located. Apparently his brother worked there a long time ago, so we're good now."

"You know," said Grayson, as they turned off the path and started through the woods, "this is how the Blair Witch started."

"Grayson, shut up," said Chris.

"I'm just saying."

They ignored him. Claire asked, "Do you know about this place, Alexia?"

"Do you think everyone in Umbrella knows each other, or about each other's work or workplaces?"

"So no," said Claire. "Jesus. Here I thought you'd have some useful fucking insight."

"Well, I don't," said Alexia curtly. "I didn't even know about this fucking place. I worked in Antarctica, Claire. If you'll recall, Antarctica is _an entirely different continent_."

"The one time your experience with Umbrella would've been useful," said Chris, shaking his head. "We have no idea what we're walking into."

"Stick figures hanging from trees, and weird rock formations?"

"Grayson, shut the fuck up," said Jill. "It was a terrible movie."

They walked for a long time. When they arrived at their destination, there was nothing obvious left of the building: a rusting chain-link fence overgrown with weeds and forest underbrush, and a few oblong pieces of concrete buried in the dirt and grass. Grayson found an old fiberglass sign in some weeds, the Umbrella hexagon, and it was cracked and chipped in several places, its color faded to a dirty orange and yellowish white.

They spread out to look for an entrance. Umbrella always seemed to build their laboratories underneath their buildings, so there had to be an entrance somewhere. Eventually, Grayson found it: a set of concrete steps that led to a metal door in a small bunker-like structure; the door was rusted and chained, and had a warning sign that read: RESTRICTED. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

"Old maintenance entrance," said Alexia, behind him.

Grayson ripped the chains off, then pulled the door open. It whined loudly, the rust scraping against the concrete. A long tunnel lined with pipelines, and wet, which smelled of ancient damp concrete. "You know, Bingham probably knows we're coming," he said. "We found this place pretty easily."

"It doesn't matter," said Alexia. "I'm going to kill him."


	43. Part Three - Intermission - Displeased

Veronica was tired. She'd been in and out of the cell, subjected to one weird test after another. Mostly, the tests weren't too invasive; sometimes Bingham would stick her with a needle, but that was as bad as it usually got. The other tests usually consisted of sitting still for long periods of time while Bingham and Old Boy (though Old Boy came and went like a ghost) read things on Bingham's computer, or on print-outs, and then Bingham would speak in the kind of jargon endemic to the extreme geneticist.

Veronica was pretty sure Old Boy did not understand Bingham's alien science-language; Old Boy was, from what she had gleaned, a businessman of sorts, and not a scientist. He seemed to deal predominantly in money, and spoke exclusively in financial terms: everything was a 'loan', or a 'stipend', or an 'investment', and never anything else.

She was in her cell, and went to the vent. Veronica wondered if Steve was there, or if they'd taken him elsewhere. She had not heard anyone tell him to go, and she hadn't heard a struggle. She said, "Steve, you there?"

Silence. Veronica worried about Steve, and about herself. Steve had been the only socialization she'd had in however long she'd been locked up. Talking had been a great tether, and now that she had lost that tether, Veronica could feel her sanity drifting away, balloon-like.

Sighing, she went to the little bookcase in her cell and flipped through _National Geographic_ for the hundredth time, and re-read the article about ape intelligence because Veronica had always found monkeys interesting in how creepily human-like their mannerisms were. It made her think of the time her mother had brought her to the Ashbury Zoo; she had to have been five, maybe six, and they had been watching the chimpanzees. Veronica had pointed out one was smiling, and that it was cute, but her mom had explained that when chimpanzees grinned, it was a show of dominance. Veronica wasn't sure why she remembered that moment in particular; she guessed it was because it had been the first time her mother had actually shown some normalness, because she had taken her to the zoo.

 _Maybe that was why mom always smiled in that weird way of hers_ , Veronica thought. _She was showing her dominance_.

She wondered if she'd ever see her mom again. Old Boy seemed interested in her mom, and so did Bingham; though both of them seemed to have their own reasons. Veronica never thought she could miss her mom as much as she did. She started missing all the stupid little things: the way her mom talked, the color of her eyes, her cold confidence...

Shouting match outside her cell. Veronica realized the person shouting the loudest was Bingham, and the other voice, frequently cut off by Bingham, belonged to HUNK.

"You gave her a _lethal dose_ of P-Epsilon?" Bingham screamed. Veronica went to the little slot in the door, where they inserted her meals. She saw Bingham, in his cream-colored suit and metallic tie. His face was absolutely red, and Veronica could see the hard line of the vein in Bingham's neck from the force of his yelling. "You fucking idiot!" he continued. "I said I wanted her _alive_. That was outlined in our fucking contract!"

"She pissed me off," said HUNK, seemingly unfazed by Bingham's loudness. "Bitch deserved it."

"Your orders were to drop off the anti-B.O.W weapons to the B.C.S.F, compile data for The Family, and get the girl. Nothing fucking more," said Bingham hotly. Though he wasn't shouting now, his voice was still very loud, and very angry.

Veronica had been hearing a lot about The Family lately, and still did not know who they were. But she was pretty sure they were important, and that Old Boy worked for them because he seemed like the type.

HUNK said, "I got you the girl, and I got you the data. Two out of three, Bingham. You want to get pissy, I'll take a pay-cut for Ashford."

Veronica wasn't really sure where the gun had come from, but a second later, it went off, and HUNK dropped to the ground. The gun disappeared behind the lapel of Bingham's suit, and HUNK bled out on the floor, blood glinting like liquid ruby in the halogen lights. "You're not getting shit," said Bingham, and he walked away.


	44. Part Three - Assuming a Legacy

Bingham's laboratory was impressive. A huge concrete labyrinth of halogen-lit corridors, which looked like the halls of an asylum, or a high-security prison. There were several metal doors with slits for windows. Grayson looked in one, glimpsed a woman squatting in the corner. She was eating something, and whatever that something was, it made a nauseating squelch, as if she was biting into raw meat.

The woman sensed him. She lunged at the door like a wild animal, her dirty fingers groping at the window-slit and staining it the color of old blood. A clipboard hung beside the door; it gave the woman's name as Linda Ivory, and a short physical description: brunette, petite, weighed 120 pounds. The word DISPOSAL was printed in red underneath her name.

"She's bound for hazard disposal," explained Alexia. "We used a similar system in Umbrella when the subject failed. Bingham is clearly very old school."

Alexia presently looked like a woman suffering from a terminal disease, and it worried him. She liked to put on a face whenever she was hurting. Grayson figured it was a pride thing.

"You don't look good," he said, frowning.

"Just a stomachache," she said, looking at him. "I'm fine."

"Alexia."

"Grayson. I'm fine."

"You are looking kind of shitty, Alexia," said Claire.

"Would you all stop bloody nagging me?"

"Sure. When you stop being a stubborn pain in my ass," said Grayson.

"She's fine," said Chris, dismissively. Grayson knew Chris did not really care one way or another if that was actually true. He did not like Alexia. "We need to find Bingham. And Veronica."

The corridors were never-ending nightmare halls, the same frames of a movie played in a perpetual loop. Grayson wasn't sure what sort of experiments Bingham had been conducting, though had guesses. There were more cells, and each contained a person in varying degrees of fucked-up. Some seemed more intelligent than others, and would watch them from the little door-slits, their eyes burning like super-heated coals. Others would howl and throw themselves against walls like idiot children, crying in the darkness for their mothers.

Alexia announced, "We need to split up. Grayson and I will cover this area."

"You think we're going to let you and him wander around a fucking Umbrella lab, unsupervised?" asked Chris.

"Alexia's right," said Jill, and it surprised Grayson because she was normally more rational than that. "We'd cover more ground if we split up."

"You're siding with her now?" asked Claire.

"I'm siding with the most pragmatic decision," said Jill. She looked at him. "Grayson," she said. "I'm trusting you."

Grayson thought it was pretty stupid of Jill to trust him. His loyalty was to Alexia, and he did not understand why Jill seemed to think there was some inkling of heroism deep down in the pit of him. He had no intention of being the good guy, of redeeming himself in some final Darth Vader-like scene of atonement. He was only interested in finding Veronica. "Pretty stupid, Jill," he said, staring at her.

"Yeah," she said. "I know." Jill went away with the others.

"Alexia," he said, once they were gone. "You able to map this place out with your tentacles? Vines. Appendages." He still did not know what the fuck they were. Then, "They let you feel out your environment, right? Like fucking snakes."

"I can't connect to the plant anymore." There was a sheen of sweat on her forehead. "I didn't want them to see me like this," she said suddenly, short of breath. "Give them the satisfaction."

"I knew it," he said, automatically. "What the fuck is wrong, Alexia?"

"When HUNK shot me in the leg with the anti-B.O.W fletchette."

"HUNK said it was enough to bring down—" it hit him then, and hard—"Shit."

"It's killing me, Grayson," said Alexia.

"Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"I didn't want you to lose focus," she said, looking at him. "I want you to find Veronica, before you worry about me. But my condition, I can't hide it anymore.

Grayson picked her up, despite Alexia's protests. "We're finding a lab," he said, determined. "We're finding a lab, and we're going to treat you. I lost you once, and fuck if I'm losing you now."

Alexia stared at him. Then said, quietly, "All right."

He found the lab; Umbrella's laboratories, he'd found, basically followed the same floor-plan.

Like the sort of room that belonged in science fiction films, he thought. Cryostasis tubes, and vaguely human-shaped things inside them. His first thought was fetus. They made him think of pictures he'd seen in biology books, alien in their ambiguous pink doughy forms. It was disgusting, and Grayson didn't want to look at them anymore. He had not even wanted to look at Veronica's ultrasound, because the thing in the picture that had been Veronica, who had lived in Alexia's womb like some shapeless parasite, had not looked human.

Alexia wasn't doing well. She was cold-sweating; her breathing came like guttering pops of air. Grayson wasn't even sure what he was looking for. He propped Alexia against a computer terminal and started rifling through cabinets, drawers, sample coolers.

"The cooler," she said, behind him. "To your right."

He had not seen the cooler until she'd pointed it out. Stainless steel, labeled in BIO-HAZARD and CAUTION decals. Grayson opened it, wisps of super-cold air spilling from inside and making his skin itch with pink hives. "What the fuck am I looking for, Alexia?" he asked.

She gasped. "The fucking syringe," she said, sounding short of breath.

Grayson shoved things out of his way—little glass flasks, beakers, containers with bio-hazard labels—and found a syringe. He wasn't even sure if it was the Wesker virus, but he was desperate. "Are you even sure this will fucking work?" he asked.

"I'm not sure of anything. Bring it here," she said.

He ran to her. Her skin had turned an ugly shade of pale, and her eyes kept closing, as if Alexia badly wanted to sleep. "Don't you fucking dare close your eyes," said Grayson. "You need to stay with me. Tell me where to poke you." Her eyes opened for a moment, then closed again. Suddenly, Grayson found himself transported back eighteen years, and he was watching Alfred die again.

"The needle," she said, pointing at her jugular. Her voice was distant, as if rising from the bottom of a very deep hole. "There."


	45. Interlude 17: Reincarnation

Jill wasn't sure what sort of experiments Bingham had been conducting here, and honestly did not want to know. The place seemed less like a laboratory, and more like a prison. Rather than labs, there were cell-blocks, and rooms that looked like medieval torture chambers. She had looked inside one; there had been dark stains on the concrete floors and walls, and the space had reeked of death and emptied bowels.

"I think it was stupid to let Ashford and Harman go," said Chris. It had been the fourth or fifth time he'd said that, and it was starting to grate on her. "Who knows what sort of shit might happen now. What if Ashford finds Bingham before us? What if she gets what she wants, and we lose the only leverage we ever had on her?"

"We needed to cover more ground," said Jill. Truthfully, and though Jill would never tell Chris this, she knew it had been an absolutely stupid idea. But when you still had feelings for someone, it often drove you to dumb decisions you would have otherwise never made. She still cared deeply for Grayson, maybe even still loved him, and it might have fucked up their entire op.

"You better hope we find Bingham and Veronica first," said Claire, behind them. "Ever since Grayson came into the picture, you've been making a lot of uncharacteristically dumb moves, Jill."

Jill could not even argue Claire's point, because she was absolutely right. "Yeah," was all she managed to say.

They found a laboratory. It reminded Jill of the laboratory in the Spencer estate, where she'd encountered her first tyrant. She saw a body strapped to an op-slab toward the back of the room, and realized the body belonged to Steve Burnside. He was still alive, but barely; he looked like a bloody cut of meat on a butcher's table. Jill almost vomited, but managed to choke it back down, tasting bitter bile in her mouth.

Chris saw. He said to Claire, "Don't," and pushed her away. "Don't look, Goob."

"Chris?" said Claire, and she must have seen Steve. She screamed, "Steve," and tried to push past Chris, but he kept her away. Jill was glad Chris was there; Claire did not deserve to see Steve like this, not after Antarctica.

"Jill," said Steve weakly, reaching out a bloody hand and beckoning her closer. Jill came, but found it difficult to look at Steve; Bingham had mangled him. "Veronica's being kept in cell-block G," he said. "There's a guy here with Bingham. Some guy in a suit. They're growing people here, Jill. The next step of their New World Order."

"You shouldn't talk, Steve. We—"

"I'm gonna die, Jill. Fuck if I die without helping you," he said, wincing. Then, "Bingham's using Code: Veronica. Grayson's the template. The guy in the suit wants Alexia for The Family. You need to stop them, and stop her."

"Steve, I'm so sorry," said Jill.

"It's fine. I'm okay. We all die at some point, right?" Steve managed a smile, somehow, despite how much pain he must have been in. "Tell Veronica I'm sorry for everything. I deserve this. Ashbury happened because I stole Alexia's research. You still have the copy, right?"

Jill nodded.

"Good," said Steve. "That's good. That's something." He was silent for a long moment, and Jill thought he might have died. But Steve opened his eyes and said, "They're with the Red Queen. Bingham and The Suit."

"I wish I could do something, Steve," said Jill.

Steve did not answer that time. He was dead.

"Jesus," said Jill. She heard Claire crying somewhere.

Though Chris sounded okay, Jill could see the pain in his eyes. He said, "Let's go."

Claire managed to cobble herself back together, but did not speak at all. She looked deeply reflective. Jill supposed she had gotten used to loss—a person didn't live through the things Claire had without getting a little hard.

They found cell-block G. They also found HUNK, who had been shot in the head; though his blood had congealed, and his body was cold. He had lain there for a long time, Jill decided. "Bingham shot him," she heard a voice say. She saw Veronica watching them through the door-slit. "Fuck, I'm glad to see you guys," she said. "Get me out of here, Jill. HUNK had a code on him for the lock terminal."

Jill rifled through the pockets of HUNK's fatigues and found a data-chip, roughly the size of her thumbnail and made of black silicon. It looked like it would fit in the slot on the lock terminal. She fed it into the computer; the door chunked and swung open. Veronica practically sprinted out.

"Bingham hurt you?" asked Chris.

"Poked me with needles, but that's it," said Veronica. "I heard him talking to HUNK a few times. You know—" she gestured at the corpse—"Before HUNK got a new hole in his head. Personally glad to see that asshole gone. Bingham's working with some dude in a suit, and the guy talks like he's got money. Steve mentioned something about 'The Family', and I think that's who Old Boy works for."

"Old Boy?" said Jill.

Veronica nodded. "Yeah, he looks like one of the old boys. You know, stereotypical rich guy in a suit, probably likes his martinis dry. Basically, he's mom's people." She looked around. "Speaking of which, where the hell is mom?"

"Her and your dad went the other way to look for you," said Jill. "Should be coming back this way soon." She wasn't actually sure if Alexia and Grayson would come back this way; but she didn't want to worry Veronica.

"Oh," said Veronica. She noticed Claire. Then, "You okay, Claire?"

"Steve's dead," said Claire miserably.

"Shit," said Veronica. "I was wondering why things got so quiet. He was in the cell next to mine. We used to talk. I'm sorry."

"I'll be okay," said Claire. Jill knew that was only a half-truth; Claire would never actually be okay with the idea that Steve was gone, and gone for good this time.

They left cell-block G, after Jill had double-checked HUNK's body for any clues about the Red Queen. She did not find anything. When she'd mentioned the Red Queen, Veronica said, "I know where that is." She started to walk away. "Bingham took me into that room a few times. Come on. It's a big fucking computer."

Veronica had not been kidding about the size of the Red Queen. The room it was located in was an atrium studded with little divots of lights. From the lights, a thousand holographic screens curved around the room, showed feeds from all over Bingham's operation. The computer itself was roughly the size of a government supercomputer, and glowed with red LED. Invisible fans whirred around them from the data-towers, and computer hardware hummed like khoomei.

Bingham stood in front of the computer, his form silhouetted against the red light. He turned and smiled at them. It wasn't a hostile smile; it was a genial smile, as if he was welcoming good friends into his home. "I was wondering when you were going to come," he said, in his bored 1930s newscaster voice. "When I discovered you'd bugged the data Burnside handed off to me, I thought it would take you a lot less time. Guess technology isn't quite up to par as people like to say." He looked at Veronica. "And there is my dear great-granddaughter. How are you feeling?"

"Great-granddaughter?" said Veronica, her eyes huge.

"Oh? They didn't tell you. Of course that stupid grandson of mine wouldn't tell you," said Bingham, shaking his head. His dark hair was meticulously coiffed, his beard manicured. He wore a pale suit with a silvery tie. In the dimness, Bingham's eyes burned like pits of fire. "My real name is Martin Wesker, though I prefer Bingham. Your father is my grandson: Grayson Wesker."

Veronica said nothing, clearly shocked. Jill was shocked as well. She had always thought Grayson's surname was Harman, not Wesker. Bingham seemed to sense her thoughts, and said, "Harman was the maiden name of my beloved wife Olivia Harman. I left her and my son some years ago. But I'm getting lonely in my old age, so I thought to reach out to the family." He laughed like a madman.

"Too bad your family wants nothing to do with you," said a voice, and Grayson materialized beside her like a ghost.

"Indeed," said another voice, which Jill quickly realized had belonged to Alexia. "We're not interested in 'rekindling' family ties, Bingham."

Alexia wasn't the same; she had changed dramatically. Her presence seemed amplified several thousand times, and filled the room with its oppressiveness. Her eyes burned the color of molten metal, her pupils vertical slits.


	46. Part Three - Welcome Back

Grayson decided to let Alexia handle her own business. He would jump in if things got bad; but given her present state, Grayson was sure things would only go bad for Bingham. When Alexia's pulse had stopped and her heartbeat had gone, and she had lain on that laboratory floor like some forgotten morgue body, Grayson had thought it was over. But then Alexia had opened her reptile eyes, had gasped as if someone had put a plastic bag over her head and removed it right before her terminal moment, and she'd sat up and told him Bingham would die—as resolutely as Wesker himself would have said it.

"Alexia, no need to be so angry," said Bingham, sycophantic. "My intention wasn't to kill you. The Family wants to extend an invitation to you." He smiled, and his smile made Grayson want to punch his old man teeth out. "HUNK decided to take matters into his own hands. Shooting you was not part of our contract. The Family wanted to speak with you. We knew the only way you would come is if we brought your daughter."

Alexia said nothing. She stared, in menacing silence.

Veronica said, "If I was just a lure, why the _fuck_ were you poking me with needles, asshole?"

"My own curiosity," said Bingham, bobbing his head side to side as if he was weighing the pros and cons of that particular decision, and whether it had been worth pissing off Alexia. "And we needed your blood as a catalyst for the virus, dear girl. Much like Carla Radames used Jake Muller's blood to modify the C-Virus. Your DNA contains mutations from your father and mother. Beneficial mutagens, just like Wesker's boy—in perfect, glorious symbiosis."

"How long have you been working for them?" asked Jill.

"Years," said Bingham, still smiling meaninglessly. "The Family helped hide me when I'd killed Edward. I needed a place, and money, to conduct research for my Wesker program. They supplied that, and they supplied my new identity. I'm indebted to them."

Now it made sense to Grayson how Bingham had always managed to slip off Alexia's radar. One moment, Bingham would be this bright annoying blip on the grid that was Alexia's operation—and then the next moment, the radar would go cold. The Family had helped him ghost in and out of Alexia's cross-hairs, helped him ride along the fringes of black market society without repercussions because the government, The Family's front, enjoyed the money, and they enjoyed their slow-growing control of the world's troubled regions, where the infrastructure was weak, the oil was plenty, and where they could easily profit by striking the right deals with the right groups.

Alexia, without the slightest hesitation, smashed her fist into Bingham's jaw. The movement had been so fast, so sudden, that Grayson had not even seen it. There was a loud bone-snap, and Bingham's jaw was grossly crooked and bleeding. He pushed the dislocated bone back into place with an audible pop. Then Bingham said, "I might have deserved that for the mixed signals."

Alexia punched him again, and Bingham went sideways, head whipping against the terminal with a visceral noise. Mechanically, Alexia grabbed him by the lapels of his lab coat. The robotism of her movement made Grayson think, distinctly, of the Terminator.

"You picked the wrong woman to fuck with, Bingham," said Alexia. She heaved Bingham clear off the floor. Despite the fact Bingham was infected too, he wiggled in Alexia's grip like a fish slowly dying on the angler's hook. "I warned you over thirty years ago that I wasn't someone to fuck with. You chose to ignore fair warning."

"Alexia, put him down! He might know something useful," said Chris.

"Oh no," said Alexia, shaking her head. "This time, he's not getting away."

"Alexia," said Bingham, and he actually sounded scared. His careful veneer of aloofness was crumbling away, revealing the coward underneath—a coward who realized, in that moment, he was in way over his head. "Listen. We're rational people," he continued. "Think about it. Think of the things we could achieve together."

"You're an inferior Wesker, Bingham," said Alexia, and without missing a beat, she dropped Bingham and started smashing his head against the floor. She dashed his skull against the tile until there was nothing left but red pulp and broken bone, where his face used to be.

It was over. Grayson knew that, once the brain was completely destroyed, or severed from the body, the host died. Bingham would not be able to regenerate a new brain. The Wesker virus, though impressive, was not a God trick, and could not create something from nothing. It could only rebuild what was already there.

Someone started clapping. "Your temper certainly is as hot as they've said it is, Alexia." A man in a suit appeared. He looked like someone who dined with crooked politicians, and campaigned for them. "We were planning on dumping Bingham anyway. He was just helping us out while you were out."

"Who the fuck are you?" asked Alexia.

"Call me The Rep," said The Rep, grinning. He looked a bit like Liam Neeson, but slightly younger and more manicured. Grayson didn't recognize him. "I'm with The Family. We've got an offer for you."

"What makes you think I'll respond any better to you?"

"Because we can exonerate you from Ashbury," said The Rep.

"We can do that for you too, Alexia," said Jill suddenly. She was pointing her anti-B.O.W gun at Alexia; though Grayson knew she wouldn't actually pull the trigger. Jill, Grayson knew, had a horrible habit of liking people she spent too much time around. "You work with the BSAA, we can cut you a deal. But you have to come with us. No negotiations."

"The BSAA is a dying organization. Couple of more years, we'll have enough improved clones to stock the B.C.S.F, and they'll answer directly to us," said The Rep. "The team you wiped out at AR Broadcasting were copies. Didn't work so hot. But there's always hitches in the experimental process. You're a scientist. You know that, Alexia."

"You're using Code: Veronica—the very program that created myself, and my brother—and you expect me to kowtow on that point, as if I should feel some pleasant familiarity with the program?" asked Alexia. "I _detest_ that program," she continued, her tone like acid. "I detest Alexander for ever making it."

"Alexander. Now there's a funny guy," said The Rep. "You know that 'curse' he might've mentioned about the Ashfords? Ain't a fucking curse. A series of unfortunate events which happened because your fucking grandfather was going to out The Family to the public in his little memoir. Why we had his boyfriend—" he waved his hand in the direction of Bingham's corpse—"sabotage his laboratory and kill Eddie. Eddie didn't want to play ball. But Spencer? Yeah, Old Man Spencer was more than happy to play. He told Bingy Boy, Mr. Fucking Paranoid, that Eddie was trying to steal his research. Bingy bought it, and you know the rest."

"This was all exacted by The Family," said Alexia. "Everything, my entire life up until this point, was part of your plan."

" Umbrella was our puppet," said The Rep. "Consequently, _you_ were our puppet, Alexia. You were doing everything we needed you to do, back when you were a dumb kid who was out to fucking prove something. You were laying the groundwork." The Rep paused, then smiled like an asshole. "Now, back to this deal. You work with us, we exonerate you from Ashbury. Why we infected the city. All leverage, so you couldn't tell us no. You work for us, we'll let slip to the media there was no real connection to radical terrorists, and you were found innocent after some hacker conveniently leaked files onto the internet. We'll even get the British Prime Minister to make a statement in your defense. Hell, we can get the fucking queen to make a statement in your defense. It'll all go away. And you won't have to spend the rest of your life in some Guantanamo-like installation."

"Alexia," said Jill. "Don't listen to him. The BSAA can help you. Just have to come with us."

Alexia said, "Fuck this," and stepped toward The Rep, seemingly disappearing—a charcoal blur—then re-appearing in front of him. She snapped his neck with so much force, The Rep's head was facing the wrong direction, a look of frozen surprise on his face.

"It was the best choice," said Jill.

"I'm not going with you either, Valentine," said Alexia, turning toward her.

"Alexia, you fucking back-stabbing bitch!" cried Claire.

"When had I ever given you the idea I was never a back-stabbing bitch, Redfield?" said Alexia, laughing. Grayson could not help but smile. This was the Alexia he knew from Antarctica, and Grayson was glad to know she was still there—that she had not pulled a Darth Vader and been redeemed by the Light Side. "I have the Red Queen now. Umbrella is back in my control. Or soon will be, once I deal with The Family." Alexia paused. "Tell you what," she said, wagging her finger. "You helped me find my daughter, and I owe you for that. And I always repay my debts. So I'll let you leave this place alive. I won't even follow you. I won't even look for you. In fact, it will be as if we'd never met. I'll completely forget about all of you."

"Mom, fuck the stupid computer and come with us," said Veronica.

"You're not going anywhere, Veronica," said Alexia.

"You're a fucking monster now," said Veronica. "You've turned into Albert Wesker."

Alexia smiled. "Alexia Wesker. Well. Doesn't have quite the ring to it..."

"Mom, this is seriously fucking messed up." There was something in the quality of Veronica's tone which Grayson found slightly off, as if she was reciting a well-rehearsed line from a play. "You're not Albert Wesker."

"Someone has to carry on his legacy," said Alexia. "And considering Alex Wesker is presently dead—" she glanced at Claire—"someone has to continue where he'd left off. Besides, as much as Albert annoyed me, I must admit we were always very alike. Had things gone a little differently in Antarctica..."

"Alexia, don't do this," said Jill.

"Valentine. I suggest you all leave," said Alexia. "Before I lose my patience. Grayson."

Grayson moved toward Jill and said, "It's better that you go. Or I'll make you go." He did not actually want to hurt Jill; he still cared about her, on some level. But if Jill gave him no choice, Grayson would hurt her, because that was what Alexia wanted. "It's two Weskers against your group. You've seen how powerful the virus made us. Look at how easily Alexia killed Bingham. Don't throw your life away when Alexia's giving you a chance to walk."

Jill did not say anything. She looked intensely conflicted. Then she said, "He's right."

"You're not fucking serious," said Chris.

"Chris," said Grayson. "Suggest you listen to her. Leave. Come up with a plan. Then you can try to kill us. We're going to be pretty busy the next couple of years. We won't be hard for the BSAA to track down."

They deliberated with one another for a few seconds. Then Claire said, "Come on," and they left.

"Think they're going to be a problem, Alexia?"

"Annoying, yes. A problem? Doubtful." She turned to the Red Queen, watching the rainbow honeycomb of holographic screens. Alexia tapped her chin. Then she said, "Seems Bingham is still logged in. Everything, right here. Radames' research. Bingham's work. I just have to transfer protocols, and the system will be under my control."

Grayson did not quite hear her. He realized Veronica was no longer in the room.


	47. Interlude 18: The Uncertain Future

Jill hated herself for letting things end the way they did. But Grayson had been right. If they had stayed and fought Alexia, they would have died. The Wesker virus had turned Alexia and Grayson into demigods, worse than Albert Wesker had ever been. And they were nothing but mortals with mortal weapons, and conventional mortal methods that would never work on something as unconventional as demigods.

She touched the rubber grip of the anti-B.O.W gun and felt angry. Jill tugged it from its nylon rig and almost threw it aside, but Chris stopped her. He said, "Don't," and gave her a firm look. "Barry can reverse-engineer it."

Doors opened in particular sequence—Jill guessed Alexia was showing them the way out—and they found themselves outside, in gray rainy sunlight which seared her eyes, under the rustling canopy of the Arklays. She looked at the door they had emerged from—maybe another maintenance passage—and it automatically sealed behind them. Jill tried to open it. It would not budge, not even a little.

"Let's go," said Chris, and they went.

They hiked for a long time, and eventually found the main trail. They followed it back down to the park. The teenagers were still there, though these teenagers were different. Like their predecessors, they had probably come to the Arklay Reserve to drink and smoke weed where their parents could not find them. One boy was puffing on a blunt, and watched her with a red-glazed look. He did not say anything to them. Jill figured he was too high to care about a group of armed adults who had stumbled out of the woods.

When they made it to the gravel parking lot, Jill saw several trucks there. She saw the BSAA logo stamped on the sides. Rebecca came running toward them. Barry stood on her right, as grizzled and tired-looking as ever, and Veronica stood on her left. Jill was surprised Veronica was there; she had not expected to see her again.

"This girl came ahead of the group," said Rebecca. Though she was much older now, she still maintained a certain youthfulness to her features—one of those people whose age was hard to tell. Her dark hair was cut short. Rebecca hugged her. "God, I'm glad you're okay. When we lost contact with you in Ashbury, we thought the worst happened." She looked at Veronica. "She says she knows you."

"That's Alexia Ashford's daughter," said Jill.

"Well, shit," said Barry. He looked like a stockier John Goodman in gray tactical gear. He stroked his pepper-and-salt beard meditatively, regarding Veronica with obvious suspicion. His nut-brown eyes were set in deep pockets of wrinkled flesh. "She says she wants to join the BSAA, Jill."

"Rebecca told me she joined S.T.A.R.S when she was eighteen," said Veronica, scowling. "I'll be seventeen in September. I want in."

Claire said suddenly, "Me too." She looked at Jill, then Chris. "After... Steve. This has to fucking stop." She threw her arms out for emphasis. "TerraSave isn't enough anymore. I need to be more proactive."

"No fucking way, Goob. And no fucking way, Veronica," said Chris.

"You trained me," said Claire. "I know all your tricks, Chris. Besides, I'm a fucking adult. I'm joining."

"You don't just join. There's special forces training involved—"

Veronica cut her off. "Drop it. Show me where to fucking sign up, Jill. My mom's gone outta her head. I'll do whatever training you need me to do. I mean, they let fucking people my age join the military!"

Rebecca said, "We could put her through our training program. We normally take recruits at eighteen, but we could maybe make an exception, Jill. She's Alexia's daughter, you said. It'd be good to have her on our side."

Barry rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncertain, a concerned dad. "Kid reminds me of Moira. Christ on a bicycle, there's going to be no talking her out of it, Jill." He slipped a cigar from the pocket of his Kevlar vest and lit it with a match. Then Barry said, around the cigar, the smell of Cuban tobacco thick on the air, "Could work out for the BSAA, Jill. Especially if the kid's got inside knowledge of her mom's op." He looked at Claire. "Don't really need to speak for Claire over there, though. Girl's sure shown her mettle with Raccoon and Rockfort, and all the other shit she's handled since. Leon would back me up on that, I'm sure."

"I saw her laboratory," said Veronica. "I can help you."

Jill did not like the idea of putting Veronica into danger like that. She'd grown fond of the girl; Veronica almost felt like the daughter she might have had, had things gone differently for Grayson and her. She sighed. "We'll see what we can do. But no promises, Veronica."

"You'll thank yourself later," said Veronica.

She looked at Claire and asked, "You sure about this though, Claire? We're in for some rough waters, especially with this B.C.S.F bullshit. Doubt The Family's going to bring their entire plan to a screeching halt because of a setback."

"Yeah. I'm sure. For Steve," said Claire, nodding. "I owe him."

"Alexia assuming control of fucking Umbrella isn't exactly a setback," said Chris. "It's a fucking crisis."

"Wait, wait, wait. Back up," said Barry. "Umbrella, man? And what happened to Steve?"

"Alexia's taken control of the Red Queen," said Jill. "It was the computer Chris and I had found out in the Caucus laboratory a couple of years ago, when we were sent to deal with that Sergei guy. Bingham must have salvaged it. Or maybe Wesker did, and Bingham just took over once Albert died in Kijuju."

"Okay. The fuck is a Red Queen?" asked Barry. "And again, what happened to Steve?"

"It was Umbrella's brain, essentially. A sophisticated A.I," said Jill. "It's an entire virtual database of the company. Everything they ever did, touched, or tried to hide is on that computer. Bingham must have gotten Wesker's copy of the hard-drive through The Family's government connections." She paused then, still trying to figure out how to break the news about Steve. Jill decided the best way was to simply say it. So she said it, "Steve's dead. We didn't make it to him in time."

"Christ," said Barry.

"This is terrible," said Rebecca. Rebecca had always been a somewhat sensitive soul, and bad news never really sat well on her conscience, especially when the news concerned a good friend. She looked hurt. "Poor Steve. Was it Alexia?"

"No. Bingham killed him," said Chris. "Surprisingly, Alexia helped us out. Until she fucking back-stabbed us like I knew the bitch would, and took over the Red Queen." He looked at Jill, as if he wanted to yell at her. But Chris did not yell. He said, in a manicured tone, "Alexia's also been infected with the Wesker virus, Rebecca. Her and Grayson. The shit has hit the fan, and now we're catching it in our mouths."

"Well this just gets better and better," said Barry, finishing his cigar and stamping the butt out underneath his boot. He hitched up his pants and turned to a group of younger BSAA recruits. "Start getting us ready to get out of here." The recruits scattered. Barry turned back to them and rubbed his eye with the point of his knuckle. "You know Sherry Birkin's just transferred from government work to the BSAA? Some kind of joint-agent, or some shit. The feds sent her."

"The Family wants eyes on us," said Jill.

"The Family? You keep saying this shit like I should know it, Jill."

"Illuminati, Barry. Basically." Jill smiled. "See? Some of your conspiracy theories do turn out to be true."

"Fuck," said Barry, shaking his head. "The one time I wish shit was just my tin-foil hat being too tight."

"I said something like that to Steve," said Veronica. She frowned, and did not say anything after that. She looked guilty.

"We better figure out an attack plan," said Rebecca, heading toward the BSAA trucks. "Now we have Alexia to contend with. Maybe Sherry knows something."

"Why would this Sherry chick know anything?" asked Veronica.

"Works for the government," said Rebecca. "By association, she works for The Family, and was privy to some seriously hush-hush stuff when she'd worked for Derek C. Simmons. Might be able to give us some insight. That, and Sherry knows about Alexia."

"Doubt she knows anything useful about Alexia," said Chris. "All she knows about her is whatever William Birkin told her."

"And maybe William Birkin knew something, and didn't know he actually knew something?" said Rebecca, smiling.

Chris nodded. "Maybe," he said.


	48. Part Three - End - Welcome to The Family

A year had passed since Alexia had taken over Umbrella, which now existed as a complex black clinic operation.

They were on their way to Louisiana now, on some lead Alexia had come across. They had made a pit-stop, however, before they had cleared the state-line. He had stopped by to see Sherry—she'd been very surprised to see him, and even more surprised to see Alexia—and Grayson had given her Clarence's crucifix, and the picture of his his wife and kid. Sherry had not cried, but had certainly looked as if she'd wanted to.

In Louisiana, it was hot. He'd cranked up the air-conditioning, then the radio, tuned to a local rock station. The Rolling Stones were singing _Sympathy for the Devil._

"What are we looking for in Louisiana anyway?" asked Grayson, lighting a cigarette. He cracked the window before Alexia could complain, flicking ash to the wind. They were driving on a desolate strip of bayou road, and the air reeked of fetid swamp. It was starting to get dark. "You drag me out to fucking banjo-country, and don't even tell me why." He looked at her.

Alexia did not look at him. She was always very focused when she drove. Then, "The Family has ties of some sort to a family out here. The Bakers. They live on an old plantation somewhere around here. Apparently, a man named Ethan went missing."

"So what?" said Grayson. "We the fucking cops now? Missing persons aren't really our problem, Alexia."

"I don't give a single shit about this man Ethan. I'm interested in the Bakers. They may be harboring a particularly powerful viral strain."

"It's always work with you," said Grayson, rolling his eyes.

Alexia's phone rang. It was rigged to the car. A familiar voice filled the vehicle, omnipresent and loud.

"Mom," said Veronica. "Just giving you a heads-up. BSAA's heading out to check out the Baker plantation. It's Claire and Sherry."

"They didn't send you, dear?"

"No, I'm still in training," said Veronica, and she sighed, a burst of phone-static. "They're not ready to send me out on a field-op yet. I also think Barry's getting suspicious I've been helping you out."

"Doubt it, darling. Our plan was flawless. You convinced them you were utterly against me," said Alexia, laughing. "Don't let all our scheming go to waste, dear. If Burton gets too nosy, kill him. I need you as my inside-man."

"Yeah, I know. Barry gets too close, I'll kill him," said Veronica. The last time Grayson had seen Veronica, something had changed in her. She'd hardened. "Just watch your back, mom. I'll keep an eye on things for you, and keep you updated. How are you and dad?"

"In Louisiana right now," said Grayson. "It sucks. Though I did see a gator."

"Just be careful," said Veronica. "Listen, I gotta go. Got training in an hour."

"That's fine, darling," said Alexia. "We'll see you soon."

"Of course you will, mom." Veronica hung up, and the car was silent again, except for the purr of the engine.

"God, she's just like you," said Grayson.

"Looks just like me too," said Alexia, grinning.

"Yeah, it sucks. Would never know she's my kid too."

"Not true. She's got your nose, Grayson. And your hair."

"And she has your everything else," said Grayson, smiling. He finished his cigarette and flicked it out the window, watching the red cherry grow steadily distant in the door-mirror. "It's fine. You're prettier anyway." He kicked his oxfords up on the dashboard and sighed, reclining in his chair.

"Get your shoes off my dashboard," said Alexia, swatting his feet away.

The scenery was still pretty desolate, though occasionally they'd pass a house. Each house grew progressively dirtier and more run-down, but still somehow looked the same, as if he was watching the same house in a long, slow sequence of decomposition. They stopped at a roadside place, an ice cream stand. There were a few other people there gathered at the worn picnic tables; it was probably a popular local spot. The black girl behind the counter smiled at them.

"Can I get ya folks?" she asked, in a thick Louisiana patois.

"I actually need direct—"

Grayson cut her off, after he'd read the erase-board. "I'd like two scoops of French vanilla. Wait, no. Actually. One scoop of French vanilla, and a scoop of whatever the hell the praline is." He paused. "Please."

"Praline's kinda like butter pecan," said the girl, still smiling. "Comes with chunks of praline in it. It's one of our big sella's."

He gave Alexia a look. Alexia huffed, and Grayson could feel her glare from behind the sunglasses, like radiant heat. Fishing out her wallet, Alexia handed a five to the girl. "Thank you," she said, passing Grayson the cone. Then, "Now that my husband's mouth is full, I've a question about a place around here."

"Sure," said the girl. "Go on and ask, and I'll do my best to help ya."

"The Baker plantation," said Alexia. "We're doing a documentary about the strange goings-on around the place."

"You from one of those Ghost Hunta shows?"

"No," said Alexia, shaking her head. "We're doing a documentary about the alleged murders that occurred there." Her lies were getting better, Grayson decided—to the point of flawlessness. "We're just not very clear on the directions," she added.

"You just be careful if you're goin' up there," said the girl. "Some strange things been happenin' around there. Hear Marguerite and Jack Baker are still on the land. Can't say their son Lucas is, though." The girl disappeared a moment, then came back with a piece of paper with directions neatly written on it. She handed it to Alexia. "Like I said, you folks be careful. Those Bakers got a reputation around here, and it ain't a good one. Assumin' they're even up on that land still."

"Thank you so much for your help," said Alexia, smiling. When she tried, Alexia could manage a pleasant enough smile. They walked away from the stand while the girl went to help another customer.

Grayson offered Alexia a bit of his ice cream. It basically tasted like butter pecan, but it was really creamy, slightly hazelnut-tasting. The little candies in it reminded him of truffles. "Want some? Stuff is delicious," he said.

"You look so stupid with that ice cream cone, Grayson," said Alexia, licking at the top of the swirl. She bobbed her head approvingly. "Not bad," she remarked. They got into the car. "If you spill any of that in my car, you're going to lick it off the upholstery."

Alexia had recently bought the Rolls-Royce, and was still in that overprotective just-bought-it stage. "Yeah, yeah," he said, finishing the cone and managing not to spill it. "Why are these Bakers so goddamn interesting to you anyway?"

"Their viral strain is property of Umbrella. I own Umbrella. It's a matter of re-acquiring assets," said Alexia, diplomatically.

"You just want it for your research."

"Well, yes. But that's beside the point."

They drove for two hours. After they had missed the turn-off twice, they finally found the dirt road that wound up toward the Baker plantation. It was through dense bayou, the gnarled shapes of banyan trees lingering in the mist like unfriendly old men. They passed through an ancient wrought-iron fence. The house itself was built in the style called Southern Gothic, and looked as if it had not been lived in for a long time. Idly, Grayson thought about the houses they had passed on the bayou road. Was this their last form, the final stage of decomposition?

"You know this is how almost every fucking slasher film starts?" said Grayson, getting out of the car. "Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Hills Have Eyes. All about people who decide to go on a cruise in redneck country, then get abducted and tortured by fucking inbreds."

"Grayson. We'll be fine."

They started up the road. Insects chirped in the underbrush. Frogs croaked in the hot swamp-darkness, their sounds like ghost noises. They reached the house. There was a wide veranda with a steepled roof. The front door was chained, so they went around to find a side-door.

As they turned the corner, they ran into some people. At first, Grayson thought it might be the Bakers. But it wasn't.

It was Claire and Sherry, both in BSAA fatigues. "You're fucking kidding me," said Claire, blue eyes gleaming in the incandescent porch-light, under the visor of her BSAA hat. "Wesker," she added, with an edge.

Alexia smiled. "Come now, Claire. Alexia is fine. We're old friends, aren't we?"

"Harman's name is Wesker now, isn't it? So you're Wesker," said Claire. "We're also not friends. Shut the fuck up, you back-stabbing bitch."

Sherry looked between them. Unlike Claire, she did not have that hardness in her face. She had huge blue eyes which seemed perpetually caught in the headlights of some invisible car. Her blonde hair was cut short around her jaw. She said, "Grayson? What are you doing here?" She wore Clarence's crucifix around her neck.

"Business," he said, smiling meaninglessly. "How are you, Sherry?"

She did not answer him. Sherry stared at Alexia. "Alexia," she said, in the same tone William had often used whenever he'd spoken her name. "Are you here to kill us?"

"No, actually," said Alexia. "I'm not interested in the BSAA's business at all. I have business of my own with the Bakers."

"We should arrest you," said Sherry.

"You can certainly try—and fail," said Alexia.

"Would you both shut up?" hissed Claire, ducking underneath the boarded window on their right.

At first, Grayson thought Claire just wanted them to be quiet. But as he listened, Grayson heard footsteps beyond the thin wall of the house, saw the shine of a lantern between cracks in the rotted clapboard siding. A woman was talking to herself, and Grayson heard her mention a name: Marguerite. Then the light was gone, and so were the footsteps.

"Is that Marguerite Baker?"

"Probably," said Claire.

Then the footsteps came back, at a frenzied pace. The door flew open, and in the doorway stood a gaunt old woman with greasy witch-hair, her skin a sickly shade of viral infection, teeth black-brown with rot. "Jack!" the woman screamed at the top of her lungs, flailing her arms. "Jack, we got ourselves some more visitors!"


End file.
